


In Pursuit of Light and Shadow

by Technoblade



Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Energon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Is Alive, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Technoblade/pseuds/Technoblade
Summary: The Balance of the Universe has been disrupted: with both the God of Life and the God of Chaos outside the bounds of reality, there is likely little time left before it all comes crashing down. With Unicron spared and Primus' energy draining, those that remain must decide how to move forward and survive what they pray is not their demise. The Gods, however, despite their draining might, have their own plans: Two halves must be made whole, and a blessed Guardian must reunite the lost with their homes.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 28





	1. The Past Never Fades

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Energon; It's my party and I'll write alternate realities if I want to.

Clouds of shimmering dust swirled all around, an eerie crimson contrast to the deep black and green of the space beyond. Within it all was the debris of countless civilizations, mingling together in ways that their lost people had never dreamed of, and likely prayed would never be. It was suffocating to a degree, this impenetrable barrier of destruction surrounding a singular point in the vacuum: a dreary, weakened spark, though not one that gave off any sort of light. If anything, the mass seemed to absorb anything that came too close to its sphere of influence to create a void, a blemish, a hole.

A deep, sickening hole in the fabric of spacetime, and the plague of chaos and entropy that had destroyed billions.

It was inanimate, of course, devoid of a physical form to power and control as nature directed it to. Yet it still seemed able to tease and taunt, urging anyone that came into its vague circumference of power to move forward and reach out, to touch it, to become one with its energy. For a moment he felt himself consider the notion; this being was all-powerful, and could give him the strength to do so much more in life. It whispered promises to help him grow and thrive, to give him the ability to create and restore life itself, for possibilities limited only by his imagination. The temptation was too great--almost mechanically his body turned to face it, the presence looming so close, yet still so far away, the distance marred only by the swells of dust and fog. Still he felt himself reach forward, wanting to take hold of it, to absorb the spark into himself. This was a great gift.

But in the pit of his stomach, he knew something was wrong. His hand faltered, and the clouds that swirled around him became thicker, more oppressive than before. Struggling to move in any direction at all, he turned his head to look around, to find something that he could grab and use to pull himself out of the muck. It was only then that a frightening realization crashed down upon him: there was absolutely nothing else in this place. No stars, no planets, not even an asteroid drifted lazily by. All that he could see, all that he could feel, was the oppressive pull of the toxic soul before him.

“Do you not trust me?”

The words echoed in his mind, and chilled him straight through to the core. He remained frozen in place, his gaze focusing once more upon the entity that seemed somehow closer than it had been moments before. The dust settled around it, forming a sort of tunnel in the emptiness that led from his position to its center. The voice resounded again, curiously: “I thought you had promise… it is because of you that I remain, after all. Would you not like a reward for your kindness?”

No--it had not been kindness. The familiarity of the voice twisted a tighter knot in the place his stomach should have been, bringing with it a sense of loathing. 

“Come to me, boy. You shall be given what so many others have squandered. None are so worthy as the Guardian of the Dark.”

Tendrils of energy formed from the dust and shadows, beckoning him forward into the depths of the tunnel. Everything in him kept his body frozen in place, but somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, vague curiosity brewed. What if he tried? If he were to step forth into the nothing, what would happen?

“ **_NO! IT LIES!_ ** ”

Something overtook him then, a sense that he had been punched in the gut by someone ten times as strong as himself. The air was sucked from his body as he keeled over, draining the rest of the lingering light from his vision, until all faded into black. 

\---

‘...and who doesn’t like to start the day with a bit of Markie Mark? Anyone with a conscience, I’ll bet. Next up we’ve got something to purify your soul, a bit of Earth, Wind, and Fire…’

The first sensation to reach through the murk of exhaustion was heat, coupled with a sagging, heavy coat of humidity. It was summer, wasn’t it? Then came the softness of bedsheets and a thin quilt draped over his legs, followed a sweat-soaked tanktop glued to his torso. He was awake, somehow. In his bed, in his room, surrounded by his belongings. Earth. No deep space, no lingering shadows, just an overwhelming sense of sickness and dread that lingered in his head in the form of a throbbing headache. 

“Kicker? Kicker, are you up yet?”

A voice called through the air, echoing up through the old house and his bedroom door. Why was everything so loud? His arm felt as though it was filled with lead when he tried to lift it, smacking it down on the alarm clock beside his bed to silence the radio. It seemed to take all the effort in the universe to simply turn his head to glance at it: the green numbers read 9:34 AM. Was it really that late?

“Kiiiickkkerrrr!”

Sally… why was she always such a morning person? A grunt of discontent was all the young man could muster as he tried once more to push himself upward. Reality was finally beginning to settle in, alongside the nightmares that had seemingly made him ill. Despite having an empty stomach, he felt the need to retch, shaking his head as he finally managed to sit up, just as three loud knocks came at his door.

“Come on, sleepyhead, mom’s got breakfast ready!”

Food was probably the last thing he wanted in that moment. He coughed, but it tasted like acid; he hadn’t experienced a dream like that in what felt like years. “I’m… a-alright, just… keep your pigtails on, I’m going, I’m going…”

She huffed. “I don’t do pigtails, you know that. You sound awful, though--dinner not sit with you right?” Without waiting for an answer, she invited herself in, looking quite perky, but oddly concerned. “Jeez… this place is really a dump.”

“Shut up, I’m still unpacking.”

“It’s been what, six months? Just ask for help, goofball.” She smiled then, seeing that he mostly just appeared exhausted; it was probably best that she simply thought that. “Mom wants help in the garden today; Grindor and Sureshock are already out there, but I think Highwire wants to wait for you. Either that, or maybe you actually go and talk to that guy in town about the job, she’s okay with either one.”

Right… a job. If anything was going to make him more sick than a nightmare about isolation in deep space, it was trying to follow orders from someone that didn’t give a damn about him. “Ugh… alright, let me… I’ll… right. Sorry, it was… probably just dinner. I’ll shower and be downstairs in a few, okay?”

“Hey, no skin off my nose: the more you lay around, the more I get from mom and dad’s inheritance.” A joke, of course--neither of them cared about money, but she knew it would get him to roll his eyes and finally crawl out of bed. “Here, I’ll be a good sister and throw your bed stuff in the wash. It all smells like  _ dude _ and motor oil. No wonder you can’t sleep well.”

If only that was it.

\---

For the last ten months, the Jones family had been attempting to build a new life for themselves in the Middle of Nowhere, Iowa. Miranda had no struggles finding work after everything that had happened, and settled into a very comfortable position in the private sector--the commute wasn’t great, but she seemed to be very happy having a long drive every day. Sally was thrilled to be attending a public school, having grown tired of lessons at home and whatever bases they bounced between since the first grade: now she had a chance to make friends, go to dances, and whatever else it was that teenage girls did. It also allowed her to find her own interests, with a bit of coaching from Misha and Alexis when they could. For the women in the family, adjusting to life without the Cybertronians was a walk in the park.

The same could not be said for the Jones men.

When it came to Kicker, he found himself slipping back into old mindsets far too much for his liking. Little things sent him into bouts of anger and frustration, though he could usually reel himself in rather quickly. Spite often clouded his mind, and focus was far from his grasp in nearly every activity. He had given up on homeschooling some time ago, despite knowing that he needed to have at least  _ some _ form of education; you couldn’t exactly put “Energon Bloodhound” or “Alien Mediator” on a resume, as he had been told. The discussion of trade school had come up more than once, as did taking on an apprenticeship, but none of it held his interest for very long. Seeing his government-issued therapist didn’t seem to be helping either, because who in the universe would possibly be able to help him through the weight that he carried on his shoulders?

Kicker knew that he needed to change, to do something, but it seemed that his head and his heart were holding him down.

As he had promised, the shower was his first destination after finally peeling himself out of the bed. His hair was unkempt, and he felt it practically glued to his head from sweat. Trying to ignore the sickeningly alluring scent of breakfast sausage wafting up from the kitchen, he closed the door and finally took a look at himself in the mirror. The young man that stared back at him was a complete stranger: dark circles under his eyes made his face seem hollow, and it was clear that he had lost a bit of weight as well. Kicker slowly ran a hand through his hair, as though he were trying to find something in himself to be proud of.

Ultimately, he saw nothing worthy of respect in his reflection. After heaving a deep sigh, he stripped down to take the quickest, coldest shower of his life: the water heater must have been broken, once again. Right… his mother had asked him to call someone to take a look at it, hadn’t she? Oops. It did the job of waking him up a bit more, at least, so that when he finally trudged down the stairs ten minutes later, now in a fresh t-shirt and jeans, he at least looked a bit more human than he had before.

The first floor of the homestead was much more presentable than his personal space. For weeks now he and Sally had been helping their mother to decorate the place, going from small projects like painting the doors to tearing out a wall to merge the living room and dining area into one large community space. Sure, they probably wouldn’t have many visitors, but it made things feel a bit less closed-off. Most of their belongings had been unpacked already, with one full wall crammed full of textbooks and novels that Miranda had kept in storage for years--”I’ve always wanted a little library,” she would say--and everything else was either displays with knick-knacks or odd statues.

At first, he had thought it was gaudy and unnecessary; who would collect half of this stuff? Globes and weird pieces of modern art, paintings of fields and mountains, it was a bit much for most people. But the more time Kicker spent simply lazing around the place, the more comfortable he had felt in the home: it was actually their own, and it was completely human.

If one ignored the Minicons that still hung around, anyway. 

From the kitchen, Kicker could hear a particular set of beeps and whirls that he knew at once came from High Wire. The bike had a particular interest in cleaning, and often followed others around the house with a vacuum cleaner or a mop in tow. Mingling in with his chipper tones was the sound of clattering cutlery and plates--at least _someone_ around there enjoyed doing the dishes. Kicker took that moment to slip in and grab the plate that had been left out for him, hoping not to catch the mech’s attention. Fortunately, for his sanity at least, High Wire didn’t give any indication that he had heard anything but the running water and his own sing-song vocals.

With the plate in hand, Kicker settled down on the couch and tried to sort through his thoughts. The nightmare was pushed as far back as it could go in his mind, and in the forefront, he focused on the day ahead: either help mom in the garden, wander through the woods surrounding their home, or trudge into town and try to find a job. Another option would be to finally sit down and go through some online courses for his GED; mom said she would get off his case if he showed an interest in anything at all that wasn’t hiding in his room all day. But the fact of the matter was, almost nothing could hold his attention for very long without ultimately leading him back to thinking about the Cybertronians.

Whether it was something as simple as a meme he wanted to show Ironhide, or the hiss of hydraulics as a truck came to a stop at an intersection, everything reminded him of the friends that were now countless lightyears away. In the end, they were his family; it had taken far too long for him to come to truly love and appreciate them, and that was a pain that was hard to ignore. How was he supposed to live a normal life knowing that there were aliens out in the cosmos, and that they were trying to rebuild their lives after endless tragedies?

He had watched their world be torn apart right in front of him, and now he was just sitting in front of the television trying to figure out who he was supposed to be now that he was, inherently, rather useless. Unfortunately, he hadn’t inherited his parents’ scientific aptitude, so becoming an engineer or a cosmonaut or something wasn’t possible. After so much of his life had been tied to space, it was rather embarrassing how little he could do with it.

After sitting there awhile, forcing himself to eat the cold breakfast in front of him, Kicker made a decision: he would at least humor the man in town that had offered him a job, and if he did well at that, then perhaps he would go into the trades. It didn’t require as much schooling, and at least it would keep him out of the house and away from the strange thoughts that crept through his head when he was alone. The money in any of it didn’t matter: being able to actually do something and get out of a depressive spiral was the goal.

He chose to bike into town on that day. Usually he would cruise around on High Wire or Sureshock, but sometimes having the freedom of actually pushing himself to ride up the winding hills under his own power, feeling his muscles strain and the wind in his hair, felt like a reward for getting out and into the world. It was a long ride, sure, but the scenery was, arguably, rather worth the solitude his family had; Iowa was no trophy in terms of legislation or most of the people that lived there, but when the government told you where to go, you were wise to take it and run. Kicker pedaled past the little truck stop diner that had become his favorite place to go when he was out on his own, despite sticking out worse in there than he did among the titans of Cybertron. The cheeseburgers were good, and the company was colorful: he loved hearing the stories that the truckers would tell, and the head waitress was a sweet older woman who could always make him smile. 

Alright, so maybe living away from giant robots wasn’t all bad: he had always been told to cherish the little things, while being surrounded by nothing but the big. Here, he could see how it was possible--these people lived a certain way, and they were usually quite happy without relying on demi-gods and heavily-armored walking weapons depots. None of them had any idea of what had happened just beyond the borders of their town, and that was probably for the best.

It was a delivery job for the local machine shop, or so he had been told: they would fix tools and cars, build parts for everything from refrigerators to doors to handles for tea kettles, and so many more neat little bits that Kicker couldn’t even fathom the name of. Some folks, however, couldn’t always pick up their orders--that was, ideally, where he would come in. The woman who owned the shop was soft spoken, but had a hardened look to her that told him that she would have probably been able to wrestle an Omnicon to the ground if she had to. As he entered the shop, another woman looked up from the counter, surrounded by work orders and more cardboard boxes than he could count. “Oh hey, look who came back! Thought we scared ya away for good last time.”

Molly was her name; she was a gentle soul, but seemed to have more energy packed away in her short, stout frame than a pack of rabid terrorcons. Pushing out from behind her hoard, the woman swept her messy dark hair up into a loose pony-tail to greet him. “Tegan was really hoping you’d stop by. We had to ditch Bobby--I know he picked you up for this gig, but he was _not_ the kind of guy we wanted around the shop. You, though: you’ve got the right attitude.” She looked him up and down, nodding. “Might need a good meal or two on top of it, but I bet you can at least lift your own weight, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve, uh. I’ve got good leg strength,” he said, offering her a weak smile. “A-and I’m sorry for ditching him like that. It was… really unprofessional.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “I would’ve done the same thing; like I said, he was nasty, no matter how good he could weld. The hole you left in the wall was pretty impressive, too--but, we wanted you back because… well.” She rubbed at her chin, thinking. Was it that hard to find something redeeming about him? “You seem like a guy who’s got a lot of heart and just needs a pick-me-up to get yourself back on the road. And what better pick-me-up than doing the picking-up yourself!”

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that she reminded him a bit of Prowl. Great. More memories to push down.

“Well, my mom wants me out of the house more, and you guys are really close to the diner, so I figured, hey, why not give it another go,” Kicker said. That got a laugh out of Molly.

“You know, in a lot of jobs, that kind of brutal honesty would get you pushed right back out the door. But here, we like it. And, I mean, where else in this town are you gonna have entertainment like us? A wild bi and her big strong lumberjack of a wife slinging puns is pretty great when you top it off with the work we do. So, why don’t we get you a work shirt and send you out on the town, hmm? D’you have a truck?”

Molly ushered him into the front office, which was more of a storage room than anything. She tossed him a button-up shirt that was two sizes too big, then found one all the way at the bottom of a box that was only just a bit baggy on him. “Jeans are fine, same with your sneakers: Come in comfortable, but at least look like you’ve cleaned up before you got here. And, ah… hmm. Truck, right! Keys. Let me find…”

It wasn’t anything fancy--an older Toyota Tundra with an extended bed, which would be more than enough to cart deliveries around. She tossed him the keys, but paused only then before looking at him. “Right, legal stuff--you’ve got a license, right?”

Kicker gave her a blank look. “...Uh.” Why would he have needed to get a license when there was always a robot to drive him around? He hadn’t thought about this until now. Shoot.

“Well… okay, get that sorted out soon and you can have the truck to drive around. I’ve seen you with that four-wheeler, that’ll do fine until then. Really, just--having a living person to help us get shit done is going to make things so much easier! Oh! Maybe we can even get the front area cleaned up!” Molly was beaming then, and ushered him back out into the lobby to show him around the place.

\---

By the time he got back to the house, the sun was beginning to set. Kicker’s body ached from all of the work he had done: biking back and forth through the town making small deliveries, then helping to rearrange the front desk area so Molly could actually use her computer, and ending out the day by helping Tegan haul scrap to the recycling yards to sell had been the most work he had done in months. Standing up to Galvatron hadn’t been this physically draining. Even so, it felt good to have actually done something productive with his time. His new bosses were thrilled as well, which made the feeling that much better. Even pushing his bike along the road, Kicker felt good about everything that had transpired. 

Unfortunately, life seemed to rip such joy out of him almost as soon as it settled in.

As he walked down the long driveway, he noticed a car parked just in front of the house that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright: jet black, tinted windows. “Great… suits.” It had been weeks since anyone from the government had stopped by to check in on them; while not technically witness protection, the Jones family had been relocated by one of the more mysterious arms of the CIA to help keep an eye on what they could do with the collective knowledge they carried. While his mother and sister were only ever mildly annoyed by the poking and prodding into their lives, both he and his father _actually agreed_ on one thing: it was too much surveillance for their liking.

The only good thing in this instance was that they seemed to be wrapping up. Good. Miranda was standing in the front doorway chuckling with two men, who were both were angled as though they were ready to return to their car. This was his chance--after the day he had, the last thing Kicker wanted was to be interviewed for an hour on top of his exhaustion. What had he been up to, had he tried reaching out to the Cybertronians, was he sure he hadn’t seen any around lately, it was all too invasive. He swerved his bike into the treeline around the edge of the property and kept low as he crept it towards a shed in the back. Much to his relief, the men said their goodbyes and drove off without spotting him. 

“Don’t wanna say hi to our old pals, Kicker?”

Sally, however, always knew when to call him out. 

She was standing on the back porch, a mug in her hand as she watched him crawl out of the bushes. “It was Jeff and Jim. Nothing bad this time, at least for me and mom. Dad went right back down to his office after they talked to him, so I’ve got no clue there, but--”

“I don’t wanna hear about it.” Kicker was tired; he pushed his bike up and into the shed before shoving the heavy door closed. “I just wanna grab a shower and get to bed, I’ve got work in the morning.”

At that news, his sister looked rather surprised. “You--you actually went back? Seriously? Kicker, that’s great! Does mom know?”

“Probably--she knows everything,” he wearily replied. “But yeah, I went back… the real owners are really nice, it’s just a lot of heavy lifting and socializing.”

“Yikes… well, I mean, you’re better than you used to be, at least,” Sally said, trying to sound encouraging. “Socializing and all. Oh--speaking of that, they did mention  _ one _ thing… have you…” She scrunched her nose up as though she were thinking hard, likely of some way to sugar-coat news. He hated when she did that. “Have you heard from anyone lately? Like, Rad, Alexis, any of them?”

Kicker frowned. “No--well, I mean, Alexis sent me a few emails with school ideas, but I never respond to that junk. And before you ask, no, I haven’t tried calling the Autobots either. But why are you asking?”

She shook her head. “Nevermind, then. Here, let’s get you some cocoa, it’s really good--”

“Sally, if you’re hiding something--”

“I’m not! Look, just forget I mentioned it, I wanna hear about your job!”

He could feel his temper beginning to flare, and the last thing he wanted to do was explode. Biting down on his tongue, Kicker shook his head and pushed past his sister and into the house. His mother was cleaning up dinner dishes, but he didn’t stop to say hi. In just the span of ten minutes, his entire day had come crashing down, and the last thing he wanted to do was take it out on her, or even Sally. Both of them were living their best lives now; why should he and his terrible attitude bring them down?

Much to his relief, Sally seemed to have kept to her word about cleaning his bedding. As he dropped his backpack on the floor, barely remembering the leftovers that Molly had shoved into his hands as he left, all he could think about was curling up under his quilt and sleeping for a year or three. The sheets smelled like they had been in the sun most of the day, bringing a delightful, soothing scent into the room that somehow masked whatever “dude smell” was. He dropped face-first onto the bed, shoving his head as deep in the pillow as it would physically allow before he uttered an exhausted, pained groan.

“Why me…?” 

It was pitiful to be feeling and acting this way, and he knew it--sometimes, a bad day was just a bad day. And, in reality, it had been the best day of the last six months of his life! Just that last bit was terrible, and that was all. Positives, Optimus would say: think about the good.

And that was when the grief kicked in. Out of all of the Autobots, the three he seemed to miss most were Hotshot, Rodimus, and Optimus. Ironhide was always on his thoughts as well, but their last few encounters had been a bit awkward. In that moment, all he wanted was to sit on one of their shoulders and simply exist; Hotshot would offer an awkward joke before giving soft encouragements, and he was certain that Rodimus would have come up with some bold way for him to find a new purpose in life. Yet it was Optimus who he knew would say exactly what he needed to hear; he would validate the young man’s feelings, telling him it was alright to feel like that, and that he could take all the time he needed to ride the waves of it all before getting back up to fight another day.

Why couldn’t he have them right now? 

Just as that thought crossed his mind, and just as he turned his head to look at the clock, something across the room caught his eye: his computer. The monitor was turned on; but how could that be? He hadn’t touched it in a few days, not since Alexis had sent him yet another offer for a scholarship to a school he had no interest in. It took a bit of effort to push himself up and investigate, but with every step he took to cross the room, his heart was pounding harder and faster. His gut told him to go, and if he had learned anything, it was to always follow whatever weird senses your stomach was throwing at you.

Two windows were opened on the desktop: one was a web browser showing an overhead map of the county. A few days ago, he had tried coming up with a plan to maybe go out on his own, to try and get as far away as possible to start a new life, but abandoned it after he realized how stupid the idea was--and that most larger cities were too far to bike to. The second, however, was from an old chat service that they had used to communicate back on the Autobot bases. It only worked on their Intranet, and he could have sworn it was uninstalled by the suits that looked through his computer before they had cleared it to leave Ocean City with him, but there it was, sitting open on the screen, with a new message alert up in the corner. He could hear his heart pounding in his ear drums by this point, and sweat prickled on the back of his neck as he reached for the mouse, moving it in slow motion over the window and clicking on it.

A single line of text greeted him there, but it made the last night’s dreams now seem like a grim and frightening reality: ‘ _I still wait for you, Guardian_.’


	2. The Weary Bodies of Damaged Souls

“Guardian?”

The dim light of the computer monitor illuminated the room, casting long shadows up the walls that felt far too ominous for Kicker’s liking, and too familiar at that. He stared at the words for what seemed like ages, but was only about three minutes before he slowly leaned over to get a better look at the screen. The cursor blinked in the active chat window; there were no messages stating that the other was typing, nor anything to identify who it was, or whether or not they were online. Despite this strange anonymity, in his gut, he knew exactly who had sent the message. The question was, how?

How could a disembodied spark send him messages? What a stupid idea.

In one slow motion he pulled his chair out and sat down, never once looking away from those words. It didn’t make any sense--here, now? Why? His heart was racing as his hands slowly moved to hover over the keyboard, shaking slightly while he tried to sort through the sea of words that jumbled up in his mind. That name echoed in his mind again: Guardian. It felt so strange, and, if referring to him, completely unrealistic. There was no one that he was a guardian over, unless it was referencing the Minicon Street Team. No, that couldn’t have been right.

‘ _I’m no guardian_ ,’ he typed in response. It was stupid, but he hit Send before he could think of anything else to say. Much to his surprise, the other’s response appeared almost instantly:

‘ _Deceit does not suit you, boy. A pity._ ’

The surprise and confusion of the moment was beginning to fade, but his heart had not stopped pounding just yet; what was that supposed to mean? Kicker swallowed hard, and shot back, ‘ _Stop messing around. What do you want?_ ’

Four minutes passed before anything else appeared in the chat, and he took that time to glance through his emails once more, just in case. There were times when someone from the old days would send him a short inquiry about his knowledge of the Autobots--not asking for too many details, of course--which made him think that he might have missed something in the last few days. Unfortunately for that idea, his inbox was mostly empty. It was stupid, anyway; if this was who his gut thought it was, why in the world would they send him an email to say he would soon be receiving cryptic instant messages?

The chat window lit up again on the task bar, and, instinctively, he switched over to it to be greeted by a surprisingly short reply: ‘ _I am dying. Death is not supposed to die_.’

Kicker blinked. ‘ _What does that mean?_ ’ he asked.

‘ _Tell them. Thirteen. Flame. Tell them. Death is not supposed to die._ ’

Each sentence came as a separate reply, with the last repeating three times before Kicker could get in one more question: ‘ _Why are you telling me this?_ ’

There was another pause in responses, which gave him a moment to try and think things through: Thirteen and Flame? He couldn’t fathom who that would be, or whether that was some sort of code. And even if he could figure that much out, why did he have to play messenger boy?

And, as though on queue, the answer came: ‘ _It is because of you that I remain_.’

All at once, the dream that had followed him through the night came racing through into the waking world. Kicker pushed back from the desk by a few inches, startled; there was no doubt left in his mind as to who this was, and the very thought that this entity could contact him made his blood run cold. This wasn’t supposed to be happening--it was all supposed to go back to normal, with him as a human teenager living out his days, and all alien life going on as nature intended. 

Not that he wanted for that to be the case, but it was how things had ended.

Shaking his head and clapping his hands to his face, trying to psyche himself up and end the conversation, Kicker scooted closer to the screen and typed out a response: ‘ _Unicron, I don’t have time for this. Who are Thirteen and Flame, and why can’t you tell them this yourself?_ ’

Something flashed on his taskbar as soon as he hit send, but he didn’t get a good look at what the icon had been. His heart skipped a beat--monitoring software. He knew those government tech-heads must have put something on his computer at some point, making sure he didn’t divulge sensitive information; a name as important as Unicron more than likely tripped an alarm or two.

‘ _You know the identities of His Disciples. Tell them._ ’

Before he could send another response, the chat window vanished, closed of its own volition. “What--wait, no! Dang it--UGH!” Kicker clicked around the screen, checking for any background processes that might have shut him out of the conversation. Just as he had thought, that chat program wasn’t even on his computer anymore; there were no logs from past conversations, no leftover files, nothing. How had it been running in the first place? “Unicron, you--why me, why now?”

It was too much for him to handle in that moment. Pushing away from the desk once more, he shut down the computer and flopped back on his bed, pulling the freshly-laundered pillow over his head to shut the universe out. After a day of joy and hope, his past had once again crept in to remind him that he was far from normal--he would never be normal. Why did it have to be him? Why didn’t someone else get these ridiculous messages, hear the voices that echoed in his mind late into the night?  
Why did the God of Chaos and Entropy pick him as a play-thing?

It was that thought that stuck with him as he slipped into a fitful sleep, praying silently to any good deity who would listen that this was all just a terrible dream. He had a job now, something to look forward to in life--the Autobots and Decepticons could take care of themselves, they had to. Perhaps Unicron would finally realize that himself and stay out of the human’s dreams.

\--

 **::LOCATION - Cybertron; Central City Lower Sector D-3  
::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 22:30 (MST)**

Until that moment, death had never felt so inevitable.

Deep within the tear in the universe, a void space created by the hands of desperation and fury, a cybernetic world lay dormant, lifeless; massive gouges marred the once-mighty surface of the planet, tearing chasms that gave passerby a direct line of sight to the Core. It was a horrific nightmare made real for the few remaining inhabitants: to see internal systems so fragile exposed to the daylight sent chills down one’s spinal struts. Yet with these ancient structures now visible, it was clear just how degraded it had all become.

Cities that once thrived with life had begun to collapse and sink under the pressure, making land quakes across every level of Cybertron a daily reality. If the wrong piece of debris was moved at the wrong time, or a charge laid in the wrong spot while attempting to reinforce the aged sub-structures beneath the outer levels, the results could be seen from orbit.

It was after one such event that Optimus Prime stumbled into a darkened hallway beneath the remains of Central City, bracing himself against a broken door-frame while he waited for the latest quake to pass. _Ten, nine, eight…_ He counted down in silence, his optics offlined and snapped shut as though it would somehow shield him from harm. _Seven, six, five…_ There were crashes heard from above, and a deep, sickening grinding noise that made the faux fuel in his tanks nearly boil over from fear. _Four, three, two…_ Beneath his pedes, the movement had stopped. No longer could he feel the vibrations from crashes and failing supports, nor could he hear shredding metal and explosions; a low groaning noise echoed down the hall as the planet settled down once more.

One.

Golden optics clicked open, flickering in the shadows of what could have likely been his tomb. Dust still fell from the seams in the ceiling, but as he flashed his headlights in the room ahead of him, there seemed to be no additional stress fractures in the walls or floors; for now, he would mark it down as a blessing. More than likely, it was yet another failure in the former energon tower grid--dismantling the system and setting it back up to redistribute synthetic fuel had become a high-priority project, but sometimes, the connections were so deeply rooted in Cybertron’s numerous sub-surface cities that massive quakes like that were almost necessary.

And this one, much to his dismay, had been a controlled demolition.

He took a quick glance over a damage report that flashed across his HUD--no deaths, only minor injuries--before setting back to his mission. The losses could have been great, and knowing that there had been none allowed him to clear his mind of the lingering fears within for the moment. If he did not find the entrance that he believed would still be accessible down in the depths, a few sparks lost would be the least of their worries.

There had been no activity from the Core since the battle on the jungle-covered planetoid. Primus had gone dormant, it seemed, most likely as a way to conserve energy--but even in His quietest hours, Optimus knew he should have felt something from his Creator: a flare of curiosity or hope that would ease through his systems, a comforting warmth ebbing from his spark. Signs of care, even in the darkest of times, would remind a Prime that they were never alone. While he would never count himself as overtly religious, there were still duties that he had to attend to, and knowing that there was a constant line of support deep within him often helped to pull his spark through the clouds of doubt that they otherwise would only just barely stumble through.

And without that caring Light, the universe felt far too quiet and dark for his liking.

Beneath the remains of Central City’s once-towering skyscrapers, and long, winding freeways that led down into the lower levels of the planet, a series of service tunnels were hidden away, just out of reach from the general population. Select security personnel knew of their existence, as did a small number of maintenance mecha, but the sole purpose of the tunnels was to be a direct, uninterrupted route to Primus’ spark chamber. Optimus kept a servo against the wall as he moved into the depths, a lifeline of sorts--if, by some terrible chance, his headlights were to extinguish, he wanted at least some hope of getting back to the surface as quickly as possible. 

Then again, he thought, the only way that would happen would be if everything came crashing down on top of him. It wasn’t something he actively wished to consider after feeling quakes mere moments before.

He passed by a familiar sign affixed to the wall: “Layer 4 - Archival.” While he had never ventured very far into this particular area, he knew the long-dormant Teletraan-1 systems were somewhere inside, and that this meant he was getting closer to the Core. At least, that was how things were supposed to go; what he hadn’t expected was for the next turn to end with a blast door in his face. “...what? Where did--what?!” There was never a door here, not in the middle of the hall. One was a bit further back to access the central server room, but dead in the center of his path? Optimus frowned, frustration brewing in his fuel tanks as he leaned his full weight against the thing; there were no seams to tell him in which direction it would open, nor any buttons or panels nearby. Perhaps it was some sort of planetary defense, he reasoned--but even then, why hadn’t he known about it?

“Primus?!” His vocals boomed in the cramped space, but no reply came. There was a twinge of annoyance coursing through his spark, and the Prime pounded on the door twice before stepping back to glare at it. Without this path, the Core would be far more difficult to access and repair. “Primus, can you hear me?!” Again, he was met with nothing but the sound of his own ragged ventilations. “Slaggit…”

There had been enough unexpected roadblocks over the past few deca-cycles--the last thing that any of them needed was another door slamming in their faces. In a moment of frustration, his engines roared as he pulled back to swing his arm forward once more. Fist connected with cold, heavy metal, vibrating back through Optimus’ frame as he pulled away, angered. Why did this have to be here, why now? Despite his frustration, deep down, he knew there must have been some logical explanation. Perhaps it really was some sort of secret defense system--something like a physical firewall to impede invasion or corruption. Given the history of their world, it wasn’t an idea that could be entirely discounted, but was still something that he should have been informed of. 

“Pits…” Alright, he thought; he would have to try another way, another day. It seemed that his frame was beginning to agree with him as well: a jolt of pain ripped through his spark just then, sending him stumbling backward into the sealed door of Teletraan’s central server room. He gasped, vents hitching as they fought to steady and cool his systems, before grasping at his chest plates. “Fine, fine, I’m… I’m going…”

It took a moment for him to gather his strength enough to push away from the door. While it was not the first time he had experienced such a pang in his spark, this had definitely been one of the most painful bouts yet. Optimus looked down at his chassis, concern ebbing in his EM field, before stepping back towards the entryway to the tunnel; Red Alert was likely to scold him for going on his little expedition on his own already, but adding to it this continued pain, the Prime would never hear the end of it. A parting glance was cast back towards the blast door, cold and unrelenting, before he silently began the long walk towards the surface.

\--

**::LOCATION - Cybertron, Central City Medical Bay  
::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 01:30 (MST)**

“Ten thousand, six hundred and eighty-four. Optimus… I cannot, in good conscience, let you keep going out like this.”

Just as expected, the Chief Medical Officer was not happy. As readouts from the Prime’s systems scrolled across a terminal beside them, he paced about the room, frustrated. “I’ve been trying to make sense of this all, and I can’t come to any conclusion other than what I told you last time: the destruction of the Combination Spark has caused serious damage to your own. That’s--you’ve--over ten thousand fluctuations in the last year. Sure, some of them barely registered, but that isn’t the point. I don’t know how you’re still standing, let alone galavanting through the Underground.”

From his perch on the medical berth beside Red Alert’s scanners, Optimus felt drained. The adrenaline of going down into the planet had melted away some time ago, leaving him longing for a deep recharge cycle. He vented a sigh, then said, “I am still able to perform my duties. Other than a bit of exhaustion, I don’t normally feel anything out of the ordinary.” The medic frowned at him. “...Well, alright, sometimes I feel a bit of… tugging, or something of the sort, but it’s not… detrimental.”

“Tugging. I’m... Optimus, I am going to say this to you not just as your medic, but as your friend: you need to take some time off. Let Rodimus and Jetfire take care of things while you get some rest. The only other option I can think of is…” Red Alert looked over and stared at the Prime a moment. “Despite your arguments, you’re more than worthy of it.”

“Don’t--Red Alert, please don’t start.” Discomfort was evident in the Prime’s field for a moment, but he shook his helm as though to brush the feeling off. “Fine, I’ll--alright. If it makes you feel better, I’ll… I’ll take the next cycle off, and--”

“Three.”

“What?”

“The next three cycles, at the very least,” Red Alert confirmed. “I would prefer five or more, but I know that getting you to sit down for longer than a joor is impossible on a good day. Doing some light paperwork is fine, but unless it’s to come down here and let me actually look at your spark, I don’t want to see you wandering around. Alright?”

Silence filled the space between them as Optimus tried to form an argument against his closest friend’s judgement. As loath as he was to admit it, ever since he had awoken from the final battle of the war, he had not stopped moving. There were always arguments to sort out, or supplies to look through, buildings that threatened to collapse around them--he was the leader of their species, and therefore, it was his duty to ensure that all who called Cybertron home were safe and comfortable. Would it truly be so terrible to step back and let his advisors take charge for a few days? 

“Alright; you win.” Optimus leaned back on the mediberth and let loose another sigh. He was tired. “I’ll… stay in my quarters, work on a few documents that I’ve been putting off. Does that work?”

“For now, yes.” Red Alert nodded in agreement and crossed back over to his terminal, where he immediately began typing something out. “Obviously, I will be over every cycle to check in on your status--if anything changes, we’ll get you back here for observation. Worst case scenario, we’re going back to my original plan. I don’t know how it does what it does, but the Matrix always seems to stabilize you; I can’t see why it wouldn’t do so now.”

Optimus wasn’t about to argue the point again. While he disliked the idea of reclaiming the holy relic now, especially if it was simply to make himself feel better, there was no energy left in his frame to speak up about it. “Very well…”

“Good. Now, I’m going to give you something to help you actually recharge,” Red Alert said, “and then we’ll get you back to your quarters. And don’t worry, I’ll take care of informing the Command team of the plans. I just need you to focus on getting well and allowing your spark to heal.”

It was a few moments later that Optimus was released to set back down the halls towards his quarters, waving off the aide-in-training that offered to help him back to his room. His helm buzzed with a strange sort of energy that he wasn’t used to--whatever supplements Red Alert had given him blocked off most of his pain receptors, but it had the side-effect of making everything feel a bit foggy. Even so, he did his best to nod to those that stopped to salute as he moved past, and waited until he was in the lift to lean against the wall, shaking his helm as though to chase the mental clouds away. It was expected that he maintain his composure at all times, after all--to show any sort of exhaustion or signs of weakness could spread doubt and fear among the troops. For their sake, he had to hold his helm high.

As the lift descended into the lower levels of the base, the Prime tried once again to stand up and keep his balance. His servo absently drifted upward to rub at his chest-plates, and he tried to keep his focus on just getting back to berth. Why had all of his energy drained so suddenly--what was in that supplement? It was as though he was walking through a tar pit, dragging himself along as he desperately reached for the shore line, only to have it slip from his grasp every time. When the door lifted to show the long hall of the Command Level in front of him, that tar felt just that much deeper. 

His own quarters were not the furthest from the lift, but every step he took seemed to last an eternity. One pede in front of the other, just a few breems and he would be there; whatever it was that Red Alert had given him, he would kindly suggest that the medic never use it again. The keypad recognized his EM field upon his approach and opened silently, allowing Optimus to stagger inside without pause. One step… two… three… four… he reached his berth and collapsed forward, not bothering to pull the covers down as he crawled up into it, defeated. Everything felt heavy, but not five minutes later, he had drifted off into recharge.

Across the room, barely two steps away from the slumbering Prime, a console built into the wall flickered to life. The logo for Teletraan-1’s network flashed across the screen for a brief moment, before a single terminal window opened on the screen. Seconds later text began to appear--commands that dug down through various directories and back again, as though it was searching for something. Entire archives of encrypted data opened and closed in the flicker of an optic, though no part of the Autobot’s terminal seemed to send out any warnings. In total, the commands successfully requested and pulled six separate archived files to a local folder, notated in the second-to-last line of the command lines. 

There was, however, one last line that appeared moments later, completely different from all the others--it wasn’t a command or a filename, but a singular statement meant only for one specific being.

‘ _It is done, my Son_.’  
\---

**::LOCATION - Earth; [UNKNOWN], Iowa  
::TIME - 06:30 (MST)**

It was just as daylight began to creep through the curtains that Kicker awoke, watching the soft rays cast a comforting glow on the table beneath the window, with trails of dust lingering just out of reach. Despite sleeping as long as he had, exhaustion still seemed to hold his body hostage. It made sense, of course: he had done more physical labor in the last twenty-four hours than he had in the last few months combined, and his muscles weren’t happy about it. Then his mind drifted back to the strange exchange of messages he had just before finally falling asleep. Had it been real? It felt as though it was, despite no evidence being left on his computer.

Even without proof to back him up, for his own sake, he had to know.

He pushed himself out of bed and began rummaging through a box near his desk. Inside was a random assortment of books, folders, and small electronics, but the prize he sought was something hidden away beneath it all. From within the mess Kicker removed what appeared to be the case for a portable gaming device--at least, that’s what the label said. When unzipped, however, the facade quickly fell away; on one side was a simple LED screen embedded within a cloth-covered metal block. On the other, a rather unassuming smart phone. According to the tiny screen beside it, the phone held a full charge: just as expected. Removing the phone from its felt-lined cradle, Kicker slipped the case into his backpack before scrambling to get ready.

The kind woman that worked the front office at the shop gave him a temporary shirt while they tried to find one in his actual size. It was a bit big, given his unplanned weight loss, but he didn’t seem to mind that as he slipped it on--he was never a fan of tight-fitting clothes, anyway. He went into the bathroom to do the bare minimum of grooming, knowing full well that he was probably going to come home covered in oil and grease again, but it was more care than he had given his appearance in ages. With his hair haphazardly combed, and his face wiped clean of dirt, Kicker felt ready to start the day.

At least, in part.

Back in his room, he made sure the door was closed tightly before sitting back on the bed with the phone he had found moments prior. There was a set of earbuds nearby that he plugged in and tucked into his hair before turning the device on. The startup screen did not show a brand name, nor a providers logo--instead, in the center of a steel-blue background, a silver-colored Autobot symbol flashed in front of him. Kicker pressed the icon carefully, and entered in a string of numbers and letters when a box appeared below it: JTFR3-1489KJ-SKSHDW-68B. It was a sequence burned into his memory by that point, disappearing from sight as soon as he entered the last character to show a very simple Home screen.

Only six applications seemed to be installed on the device: A standard-appearing phone call app with video options, a camera, a file viewer, a note pad, something do display maps, and one that he had never touched before--it was some sort of encryption or coding program, from what he remembered, but that wasn’t what he was interested in at the moment. It was time to make a very important call.

There were a few comm addresses that he had memorized over the years; he knew how to contact Ironhide’s private line, as well as Optimus Prime’s, but there was one back-channel string that was only known by one other being in the universe. He typed it in, but paused just before hitting Connect. What if they didn’t pick up? What if he was just going to waste their time by calling? This was, after all, something based on his dreams… at least, in part. It was hard to disprove the chat client from the night before, despite there being no logs of it on his computer. Regardless of that, the Autobots were hard at work attempting to restore some semblance of order to their home--was there any excuse for taking their attention away from that?

And yet, he couldn’t erase that command he had been given: Tell them. Perhaps his friend would know just who “Them” really was. After taking a deep breath and holding it in for a moment, Kicker finally pressed the button and made the call.

Darkness consumed the small screen, aside from a flashing Autobot insignia in the center. Waiting for someone to pick up always made him anxious; it brought up too many uncomfortable memories. Minutes ticked by that felt like hours, though he knew it would take time--especially if Cybertron was still where it had been months before. The idea caught in his stomach, and he suddenly felt ill again; were they still in danger?

There wasn’t enough time for him to focus on the frightening thought, however: the Autobrand flashed away, and he could tell that a video connection had been made. Surprising, but not entirely unwelcome. He tried ruffling his hair again just as the image flickered, and he looked down to see a very tired-looking Jetfire staring back at him. Well, as tired as a mech with a visor and face mask could look, anyway. “Uh… hey, big guy.”

“Well, look who it is--you’re not the first face I expected to see this morning,” the shuttle replied, amusement rolling through his exhausted tone. “Caught me a bit off-guard, there. Not many folks can do that.”

Kicker smiled. “So I’ve heard.”

He watched as the Commander glanced off to the side, as though looking at something across the room, before settling on on the call in front of him. “Are you alright? You… no offense, but you look like slag right now.”

“I--uh, I mean, I’m a bit tired, but…” Kicker hesitated a moment, looking over at his bedroom door before shaking his head, and speaking a bit more quietly: “I’m sorry for calling the emergency line. It’s… something happened, and you might be the only one who’ll talk to me right now who has an answer.”

The statement seemed to puzzle Jetfire, though he didn’t question it outright. “Well, nobody here’s avoiding you on purpose--you know how it is. What’s going on? And--don’t worry, I’ve got time. The morning briefing doesn’t start for another, pfff… half a joor or so. I think. Time’s kinda weird here.”

Definitely not the information he had been hoping for; Cybertron must have still been stranded. Shaking his head, Kicker tried to explain: “Sorry if I sound crazy, first off. But, ever since I got back to Earth, I’ve been having… really weird dreams. Not, like, scary or anything, but they’ve felt so real. And every time I’ve had one, it… it sounded like Unicron was talking.”

Jetfire seemed to stand up a bit straighter when he heard that. “No… no, that doesn’t sound crazy at all. Just… alright, has he been saying something to you? And do you know for sure that it’s Unicron? I can’t remember him having enough, like… functionality to speak when we were fighting him.”

“No, I know it is--I can feel it,” the young man insisted. “He hasn’t been saying much, other than… trying to convince me to go to him, and that’s one thing I can ignore, but… last night, I think he talked to me on my computer through the messaging thing we used on-base”

A pause. “You’re joking, right? How? What…? That…” Jetfire’s head tilted downward, signifying that he was probably frowning, trying to think of something. He moved from wherever he had been standing over to a terminal on the wall, where he transferred the video to immediately. From there, Kicker could see the shuttle’s personal quarters: the walls looked old and worn, far from what one would expect someone as high-ranking as Jetfire to be housed in. There were stacks of datapads on a table against the far wall, a few empty energon cubes scattered around, and some plaques hanging crookedly nearby. He watched the other begin typing, then heard, “Okay, keep going. Do you have chat logs?”

“No, there… there was nothing left,” Kicker said. “The thing wasn’t even installed on my desktop anymore--they removed it all before I left Ocean City, so I don’t know how it even showed up at all.”

“It’s not that hard to run a single instance of something, but it’s hard for a spark floating in the middle of void-space to do much but look ugly,” the shuttle replied. “Okay, that’s fine--I’ll weed it out. What did it say to you? Do you remember much of it?”

“Yeah… and that’s where I’m stuck. If I could’ve figured it out on my own, I would have. It said--” Kicker began, but froze as he heard a knock on his bedroom door. Jetfire paused as well, despite not being in the room. “Uh… who is it?”

Although muffled, he could hear his mother’s voice on the other side: “It’s just me, dear--I wanted to let you know, I’ve got breakfast and lunch for you packed on the counter. Do you need a ride to work? Sally told me you were going back today.”

Kicker let out a sigh of relief. “N-no, I’m good. Biking does me good. Thanks, mom.” He waited until he heard her continue down the hall before speaking again, clearly a bit unnerved. “Um… right, uh… Unicron. It told me I’ve gotta find… what was it, Flame and… Thirteen? He said they were Disciples of something, but I’ve got no idea who that could be.”

Again, Jetfire stopped his typing to stare at the screen blankly; sometimes, Kicker wished he could see what was going on under that mask. “Disciples Flame and Thirteen…? That’s… hmm. Whose Disciples--wait. Wait, wait, wait…”

“Uh, it said “his,” but with like, a capital H. I didn’t think anybody used that but, like, God or whatever in church stuff.”

“Thaaaat’s it,” the shuttle said. “His Disciples--Primus. His Disciples are the Primes, so… Flame is--”

Kicker felt like a fool, then; how did he not see it before? “Rodimus? That’s gotta be Flame, right?”

“Yeah. He’s a Prime that can turn into a big fireball at will, and has the gaudy paint job to match, so that would be my guess. The thing is, his official title isn’t Flame Prime, or Prime of Flame, or whatever,” Jetfire explained. “That’s just going off his appearance. Rodimus is the Prime of Inspiration--he’s a skilled speaker who’s helped craft and reform civilizations, led people out of war, that stuff. Thirteen, though, that’s… a weird one. The only other Prime that we know is alive and kicking is Optimus, but he’s Prime of Light. I mean, Thirteen COULD refer to the Thirteen Primes, but… they’re all either dead or M.I.A.”

It made sense on some level: Rodimus aided Alpha Q in trying to restore some of Unicron’s power, so he might know what to do if something was going wrong. But as Jetfire gave his history lesson, something stuck out to Kicker as odd: “Why would he want everybody but Optimus to know?”

Jetfire seemed to come to the same conclusion, leaning forward to rest his servos on the terminal. “Unicron is… it’s got an obsession with him, and it’s freaked us all out since we learned about it. You’re right, it… it doesn’t make sense, but I haven’t asked Optim--” He broke off mid-sentence, seemingly backpedaling from something he was about to say. “What was the message? What did Unicron want “Flame and Thirteen” to know?”

The god of Chaos hadn’t exactly said that he couldn’t tell someone else--besides, how would he get information to Rodimus otherwise? Kicker sighed and said, “He said… he said he’s dying. And that “Death is not supposed to die.” He kept saying it over and over, Death isn’t supposed to die. I don’t know what--”

“Oh for Pits’ sake--dying? What--how?” Jetfire interrupted. “We’ve got monitors on his spark at all times, there’s been no change in its status since you chased Galvatron off. We get it: Primus said we can’t get rid of it, your pal Alpha Q pled with you and Rodimus, so we’re not. I don’t like it, but I trust Optimus’ judgement, and yours. It’s doing about as well as the big guy downstairs is, but it’s still there, still super ominous and depressing.”

Kicker sighed and stood up from his spot on the bed, grabbing his backpack as he moved towards the door. If his mother had left, Sally was probably still asleep, and there was no chance of running into his father on the way out; it was safe for him to finally get out of the house. “Maybe… maybe there’s something you guys are missing? I don’t know. I just.. I just know this was weird, and wrong, and I don’t know why I’d be getting it unless he thinks he’s going unheard.”

He looked down to see Jetfire typing fervently then, just as he reached the bottom of the stairs and grabbed the bag his mother told him about. The Commander said, “I’ll go over the scanners with Scattorshot and Thundercracker again to see if we missed something, but we’ve got all channels open at all times. Even if it’s just with pulses of freaky green light for yes and no, we’ll be able to see it and figure things out. It doesn’t need to be dragging you into anything. Speaking of, uh, sounds like congrats on the job, kid.”

“Oh, um, thanks. Today’s my second day. And--shoot, I forgot to ask… how is Optimus doing? Last time I saw him he was still locked up in the medbay.”

There was a sigh from Jetfire as he moved out the back door. “He’s up and about, but the doc’s got him on bed rest. I’m gonna go check on him here in a few kliks, but… he needs to stay down for a bit. Pushed himself way too hard during that last fight, and I don’t like seeing him hurt or tired like this. He’ll be okay, though--he always comes around, and he’s got the best doctor in the business to scare him into staying in bed. Believe me, Red doesn’t mess around anymore: Optimus is a master escape artist when it comes to getting out of the medbay and back to work. Puts my spec ops skills to shame.”

Kicker smiled, seeing the shuttle trying hard to keep up his spirits; to be on Cybertron in such a state must have been terrible. “That’s good. Are you okay leading things, though?”

“Don’t worry about me--I was in charge the first time Optimus went to Earth, and things went just fine. Plus, Rodimus is sticking around for awhile, and Ultra Magnus even dropped in to lend a servo too. We’ve got this in the bag,” Jetfire said. He was still typing quite a bit, which seemed odd, but Kicker chose not to question it. “But if you get anything else from that creep, give me a call, okay? I’ll rough him up real good so you can sleep.”

It was almost like having an older brother: Jetfire was a soft, reassuring spark who always meant well for those closest to him. Even if he was stretching the truth to make things seem better--which, to Kicker, it was clear that he was--the shuttle would do his best to actually follow through on his promises and comfort. And although the conversation hadn’t been entirely comforting, it still helped to ease Kicker’s mind. “Alright, big guy. Take it easy, and… I’ll try to leave you alone.”

“Ehh, forget the rules, you’re always good to talk to me,” Jetfire replied. “Even if I’m busy, I’ll step away for you. For now, though, I’ll give Rodimus the information. Have a good one, kid.” With that, he gave a two-finger salute and the screen went dark once more.

It was a comfort that he hadn’t been counting on a mere day ago; even with all the distance between them, he could still hear from those that had become closer than family. Satisfied and filled with a renewed sense of peace, Kicker pulled out the case from his bag and slipped the phone back inside before grabbing his bike from the shed. It was still early, so he knew he could get to the shop and shovel whatever it was his mother had made down his throat before work started. Work… he was actually working. It was a real job, with a real paycheck, and real bosses who seemed to care about his well-being. Who would have believed it possible?

Pedaling down their long driveway, out onto the quiet two-lane street at the bottom of the hill, Kicker’s newfound joy continued to pour forth from his soul, up until the moment that the car barreling down the road behind him screeched and slammed into his back tire.


	3. Routine and Divergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the Cybertronians attempt to find some semblance of routines and duties in their new lives, conversations and questions arise that bring about more confusion and uncertainty.

**::LOCATION - Cybertron; Central City Command - SIC’s Quarters**

**::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 07:00 (MST)**

To the surprise of many, Jetfire was what one would call an early riser. Despite the long nights spent basking in the glow of his terminal, or working behind the scenes to set up supply lines and take down others, he always seemed to come online while many others were still deep in their recharge cycles. Unlike most timely starts to the day, however, this one had not been slow-going; the unexpected call from Kicker had set the shuttle on-edge, and he found himself prepared for his morning meetings far sooner than he usually was. Datapads had been arranged on his work station according to when and how they would be accessed, his few belongings had been stowed away, and the energon cubes that littered his quarters were now cleaned up and set aside to be used again later. 

Something was very wrong in the universe, but his sudden desire for organization was not the root cause--it was merely an unexpected, yet not unwelcomed, side effect of such changes. The question that rang out in his mind, however, was why; why now? Why here, of all places? Why did it have to impact so many lives that he cared for, and others that he was only just learning to weave into his own in positive ways? Why did it all have to drain the few joys that Cybertronians were finally finding to be close at hand?

Most important of all, why did the universe never seem to let them have a break?

With those annoying questions pushed into the back of his processes, there was one task that he knew needed to be accomplished before setting off to fulfill his duties for the day. Just two doors down from his humble habsuite was one which he had held access to for nearly ten million years at that point. Even so, he paused before entering, his gaze lingering on the green light that flashed just above the keypad embedded in the wall; Optimus was not a fan of unexpected company, and pinging before entering the commander’s room was a difficult habit to try and avoid, especially when he was spread so thin. Such a concern was not necessary to hold this time, however--knowing that his friend was likely in the deepest recharge cycle of his life, Jetfire activated the door and stepped inside.

Much like his own quarters, those occupied by the Prime were small and sparsely decorated. Just beyond a table piled high with crates, datapads, and disassembled rifles, sticking out over the edge of the berth, were what appeared to be Optimus’ legs dangling off the berth. It was a sight that made the shuttle smile behind his mask, even as he crept closer to see his old friend completely unconscious. Whatever had been in Red Alert’s latest concoction really did work, it seemed--finally, the most stubborn of them all was actually getting the rest he needed.

It didn’t take much to adjust the heavy hauler on the berth in a more comfortable manner, setting a cushion beneath his helm and making sure that all of him was actually on the berth and under coverings. So rarely did the other take care of himself in such a way that most everything one would associate with recharge seemed barely used. Why are you like this, the shuttle thought, despite knowing  _ exactly  _ why Optimus was the way he was. There was no rest for the weary, unless heavy sedatives were involved.

Satisfied with his work, the shuttle took a cursory glance around the room to ensure all would be well when his friend woke. The stacks of paperwork would likely keep the other busy, as would the rifles sitting out to be cleaned, but there was otherwise not much around that might induce additional stress. At least, that was what Jetfire thought until he turned to the side, and noticed quite a peculiar sight: the terminal set in the wall beside the berth was not only powered on, but showed recent use. A simple command prompt sat open in the middle of the screen, which was more baffling to him than even Kicker’s unexpected call.

While far from inept, Optimus knew next to nothing about computer commands. It was a small miracle in itself that he was able to power the thing on most mornings, let alone use it without causing network failures every five breems. Why would he be using a back-end tool?

Curious, and with his special operations background screaming in his processors, Jetfire took a step forward to scroll through the dialogue box; Optimus wouldn’t mind. From the start, it was clear that the commands entered were far beyond the scope of his commander’s understanding or ability. To himself, they were very straightforward--pull commands interspersed with lines that dug deeper down into various directories that he did not recognize, as well as decryption protocols that seemed to be calling for connected files beyond their own systems. Even the most skilled among his team of code breakers would have struggled to work with as much as there was here, unassisted.

Most disturbingly of all, from what he could determine, they had been run remotely, and all within seconds of one another--almost automated.

It was with this in mind that he scrolled down to the last line in the series, resetting his optics a few times as he read it over: ‘ _ It is done, my Son. _ ’ What could that possibly mean? Jetfire glanced back over his shoulder, feeling a bit more uneasy than he had before as he looked upon the slumbering form of Optimus Prime. Something was very wrong here--and it was his duty to determine just what that was.

Within a few moments he had taken a full copy of the command line and sent it to his personal datapad, along with the six files that had been pulled. They were massive stores of data, and the names associated with them made his wings flex with concern. It was not something that he had the time to focus on then, unfortunately; it would have to wait until his office hours before he could delve further into their meaning and contents.

Satisfied with his bit of sleuthing, he shut off the terminal screen before ensuring that the Prime was comfortable in his deep recharge. If all went according to plan, even the planet being ripped back out of the strange subspace pocket they had been trapped in would not be able to wake Optimus, who seemed to gently nuzzle the pillow that cradled his helm.  _ ‘Keep dreaming, big guy,’ _ thought Jetfire.  _ ‘We’re going to take care of things, I promise.’ _

He slipped quietly from the room and headed back to his own, ready to begin the day. A few datapads were snapped up and stuffed in his subspace, while a crate of supporting materials was tucked under one of his arms before he moved back into the hallway. Enough time had passed by then that the other mecha who occupied the sector were up and moving about, including a rather small enforcer: Prowl. The jovial mech stood by the entrance to the lift, reading over something on his datapad as the other approached. “Oh, mornin’, Jetfire. You charge up well?”

“Eh, about as good as you can get around here,” he admitted, offering a shrug in return. “Sounds like you might have been a bit better off than me, though. I’m betting having a big heater beside ya doesn’t hurt, right?”

It was a comment that made his friend blush, but the change in his expression didn’t stop a light-hearted laugh. “Yeah, yeah, when he’s  _ actually there _ it helps. But with Optimus down, Rodimus has been a  _ bit _ occupied with getting back into the swing of Cybertronian life; it’s all good, though. Speaking of, did you check on the big guy yet?”

Jetfire nodded. “Out like a turbohound pup after a good meal. If we see him walking around before the cycle’s out, then Red Alert’s fired.”

The lift slowly sank down to rest before them then, doors parting just as Prowl let out another laugh. “I think we’re all pretty lucky that he’s got you looking after him; he’d still be trying to crawl around with just one arm to work if he had his way.”

Despite the humor in the comment, Jetfire knew the truth buried just below the surface. He gave an exhausted sigh in response while they both stepped onto the lift that would sweep them back up to the first sub-level of the base. “You know as well as I do that his brand of dangerous is practically burned into his code. We’ve just gotta clean up what messes we can before he tries to wrestle them back away from us.”

Central City’s primary command outpost was abuzz with activity, even at such an early hour. The pair moved easily through the crowds of mecha making their way back into their habsuites after a long night shift, and others who were just starting their own days. Jetfire tried not to think on how much busier these halls had once been; the changing of the guard was always a great test of endurance, but with their numbers now so low, getting where one needed to be on time was a fear of the past. 

And that was without even acknowledging the number of Decepticons that were darting about as well.

In the wake of Galvatron’s demise, the decision to begin the truce again was not a difficult one to make. There was no energon ore left to distribute, let alone fight over, making the few synthetic refineries that had been scraped together the only source of fuel that anyone could find. With no will left to rip one another to pieces, those that had not fled out of fear or disdain grudgingly agreed to shift back into the pre-existing truce. At last helm-count, there were four-hundred and twenty-seven Autobots and Decepticons now sorting their way through the ruins of Central City, a number that left most ill if they thought about it for too long. Unlike most, Prowl was not as hesitant to give his new comrades a friendly smile as he moved past, chatting with anyone who happened his way with a positive tone. Jetfire wasn’t troubled much by the gesture, stopping each time to observe before they finally made their way to the primary briefing room; it had been nice to catch up with some faces that he had not seen in ages, despite the fact that it made both of them late.

Gathered around a large holo-map table in the center of the room, an odd assortment of mecha were mingling with one another as they waited for Jetfire and Prowl to take their seats. On one side of the room, Red Alert and Ultra Magnus were buried in datapads, as per usual; Rodimus sat beside the pair, engaged in what seemed to be a deep yet heated discussion with Arcee, who was pointedly gesturing with her cube of synthetic energon in-hand. Hotshot came next, doing his level best to pay more attention to the debate next to him than the mech on his left--Wheeljack.  _ Ohh, awkward, _ Jetfire thought, wincing a bit. Yet the scene that surprised him most was at the opposite end of the table: Scattorshot, the awkward technician who had rewired and configured almost the entirety of their communications systems by himself, was laughing about something with the Seeker twins, Skywarp and Thundercracker. Both were incredibly skilled with networks and technology, so it did make sense that they would fit in well with Scattorshot, but seeing him so jovial? That was new.

“ _ A-hem _ . Sorry we’re late, everybody,” Jetfire called out, waving a servo to get the room’s attention. Much to his surprise, the conversations died down almost immediately, and all optics were on him as the group settled into their seats. He watched Prowl slip in between Hotshot and Wheeljack, relieving a bit of tension on that end of the room, as he stepped up to take his usual seat beside Optimus’ empty one. “Looks like we’ve got the whole gang… all except--”

Ultra Magnus looked up and nodded. “Your chief engineer sends her regards and today’s plans, but she is still investigating the root cause of last night’s failed explosion.” His vocals were deep and robust, carrying each word as though its meaning was imperative to life itself; it was something that the shuttle had always appreciated in the older mech.

“Sounds good to me--I’ve gotta check in on that later,” he replied. “Still, guess we should get down to business. First point of order: as we all probably know by now, Optimus Prime is off-duty today. Yeah, yeah, I know--super hard to believe. Red, you wanna cover that one?”

“Oh, I would be  _ delighted _ .” With a bit of pride in his features, Red Alert stood and glanced around the room before focusing his attention on one datapad in particular. “First of all, despite giving his usual clearance to share with you all, this is classified medical data, and is not to leave this room. Over the last several months, Optimus has been suffering from a number of spark-related health issues that began just after his final confrontation with Galvatron. It is my hypothesis that the Combination Spark’s sudden… let us say  _ departure _ from his own left him damaged, and that the irregular fluctuations he has been experiencing will require rest and electro-therapy to prevent any further damaged, or any additional long-term effects. As such, he has been removed from active duty for the time being, but will still be cleared for low-stress tasks that can be completed from berth.”

Arcee adjusted a bit in her seat, curious. “Big guy doesn’t like taking his vitamins, does he? Well, forgive me for not knowing traditions, but who does that put in charge while he’s laid up?”

“Per military chain-of-command, that would be Jetfire,” the CMO explained. “However, with Rodimus now planet-side--”

“He can have it,” the Prime quickly replied. “I’m quite happy with just maintaining my usual routines. Unless, of course, he isn’t interested himself…”

Jetfire gave a dismissive wave of his servo and said, “I’ve got it, old man. It’s only a few days; plus, if you were in charge, we’re more likely to just kick back and watch movies all day than get any actual work done.”

“I’m good by that,” said Skywarp, kicking his pedes up on the table with a smirk. “The ‘Cons don’t care, either way. I mean, a sky bus is only slightly better better than a dirt-eater, but that’s just my opinion.”

The joke earned a chuckle from Rodimus, and an optic roll from Ultra Magnus, who looked back to the medic and asked, “Is his condition expected to worsen, doctor?”

“Not as long as he does what he’s told, I assure you. It’s been too many treks down below the surface,” Red Alert explained, “and pushing himself to try and take care of everything without asking for assistance. Optimus will recover, but in the mean time, we need to let him focus on resting. I do ask that you all shift projects that require physical activity away from his workflow, as authorized, and if you have any additional concerns, please see me directly. Jetfire?”

He took his seat once more, allowing the shuttle to stand and flex his wings a bit. “Thanks, Red Alert. Now that the sad stuff’s out of the way, let’s get into what you all have planned. First in the order, Arcee! Ma’am, looks like you’re with Engineering today--go help those fine kids figure out what blew up wrong and how to not let it happen again.”

She nodded. “You’ve got it. And when I find the source, I’ll blow it up even better.”

“Music to my audials. Alright… now we just skip half the alphabet here… Hotshot, you’re up. Gonna have you out with the scouts today,” Jetfire said, “so make sure you’ve got all channels open. Teams A-23 and D-14 have been looking into areas of Old Iacon that might need some additional reinforcement down below, so grab some folks and head down when we’re done here. Sound good?”

“Yes, sir,” Hotshot replied. “We’ll map it out and get the information back to Engineering as quick as we can.”

Jetfire shook his helm. “Nah, don’t worry about speed here; after yesterday, I want it done  _ thoroughly _ . Take your time, retrace your steps, do the scans a few times before sending in the data. We’ve lost enough ground as-is, and supplies are getting even lower. We can’t risk another failed sector.”

“Last inventory of the night says there’s four more energon towers that can be repurposed for sub-structures,” Arcee confirmed. “Until we get the others down, anyway. Jetfire’s right: Just make sure we’ve got solid data so we can make even more solid ground.”

“Well said! See, this is why I keep you smart guys around,” Jetfire said, clearly smiling behind his mask. “Alright… next up, Prowl--you and Wheeljack are still working on the reintegration project, right? What’s that looking like?”

Much to his surprise, the officer looked a bit apprehensive about speaking. It was quite out-of-character for Prowl, who glanced to the mech beside him before standing up, giving an awkward smile. “It’s… been a bit of a process. After speaking with mecha on all sides of things, we’ve come to the conclusion that it would be a mistake to try and rebuild the Peace Enforcers as they were. Most folks seem to be happy with working things out on their own, and that the main issue is just gonna be trust--I mean, there’s only two Decepticon officers who are out and about these days--”

“Yo.” Skywarp nodded and flicked his wing, earning a smirk from his twin.

“--and with how things were apparently approached at the start of the truce before, there’s a lot of distrust towards the Autobots. Totally understandable. We just have to do better this time, and it’s… gonna be rough.”

Jetfire’s wings dipped a bit, and he rubbed at the back of his helm. “Yeah… we fragged that up pretty good, didn’t we? Alright… Wheeljack, you have any thoughts?”

The dark grounder nodded, making firm optic-contact with Jetfire without moving from his seat. He wasn’t playing around, and as the unofficial liaison between the factions, that was to be expected. “I’m gonna be introducing Prowl to some of the more vocal among the former Decepticons who know how to speak out about the demands of the people. There are needs to be met, and while a lot of those  _ have  _ been met, there’s still a lot to be addressed and done.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Jetfire said humbly. He was not about to have a repeat of their last attempt at peace. “When you get some folks together, I’d like for you to pull Ultra Magnus into the talks, too. If there’s anybody around here who can rewrite protocol for the betterment of us all, it’s the master of putting it together. You okay with that, big guy?”

A firm nod from Ultra Magnus. “I will do my due-diligence, so long as my presence in such conversations is welcomed.”

Wheeljack cast a quick glance back towards Thundercracker and Skywarp, who did not seem too put-off by the idea, before speaking again: “So long as the needs of the people are heard and understood, we’ll be fine with that.”

“Sounds good, then,” Jetfire said, more relieved than his posture or words could ever show. “Alrighty, then… guess that leaves us with the brainy bunch over there, since Rodimus and I are splitting Optimus’ duties between us. Scattorshot, how are things going with the communications grid?”

It was clear that he had not been expecting to be called on; Scattorshot sat up a bit straighter in his seat, pulling over a few datapads while he tried to string a sentence together: “W-well, uh, the, um--fact of the matter is, things are… a bit _weird_ , sir.”

“Weird, how?” That didn’t sound good.

“As in, if we’re talkin’ here in the rift, communications are pretty good. Sure, there’s still the weird bumps trying to get through to Teletraan and pull data, but otherwise, both the former Autobot and Decepticon grids are goin’ through loud and clear. When it comes to the outside, though… that’s where stuff’s breakin’ up something fierce.”

Beside him, Thundercracker nodded. “That thing seems t’eat up most of what we try sendin’ out, so we need to find a better way’ve boosting and pushing the messages out, then pulling in whatever comes back. Just gotta find the right frequencies and equipment, for now.”

To Jetfire, the news was a bit troubling; if they couldn’t reach the universe beyond the Tear, how were they supposed to coordinate anything? The signals had been deteriorating further and further as time went on--not that they could accurately judge time in a voidspace like this--which made communicating with anyone on the outside nearly impossible without sending a team out to actually convey the message. It was like the darkest years of the war all over again.

“Sounds like you all are gonna be busy. Well, just let me know what you’re gonna need, and we’ll be sure that you guys get it,” the shuttle said. “That’s your assignment for the day: get me a list of supplies and we’ll hunt them down. Sound good? Great. Soooo… I think that about covers everything… any other news before we break off?”

Much to his surprise, Scattorshot perked up again, setting aside his communications datapad to pick up another. “Yeah, uh--I sent it off to Optimus before knowing he wasn’t going to be on today, but… overnight, Unicron’s spark was giving off some really bizarre readings.”

Every optic in the room turned to face the technician, who seemed to feel those gazes burning into him--and, therefore, kept his own down. Rodimus leaned in and spoke next, saying, “Bizarre  _ how _ , exactly?”

“As in, it was actual--well, SOMETHING,” the tank explained. “It’s been dormant since the fighting stopped, mostly; sometimes there’ll be a little flicker of something, like a sun spot kind of deal, but it goes quiet again. This time, it was… well, best way t’put it is that it was  _ pulsing _ , like some kind of code.”

Jetfire visibly tensed. “You managed to capture that, right?”

“Yessir. No idea what it says, but it’s somethin’. Want me to send it to you too?”

“Definitely. I’ll see if we can scrounge up somebody who’s studied Unicron that HASN’T totally lost their processors, maybe get an idea or two of what that big ball of nasty wanted to say. Rodimus, you good to help me look at it later?”

The Prime nodded. “Of course; we’ll meet up around the break period to look it over. Thank you for letting us know, Scattorshot--this could be nothing, but I would rather we make sure it isn’t  _ something  _ before we merely assume and things get worse as a result.”

“Okay… so, creepy, cryptic stuff aside, that probably covers it all, right?” Jetfire paused for a moment, taking a look around the room before nodding. “Alright, let’s get to it, then. Do your best out there, team.” He watched as the mecha around him gathered their things and began to leave the room, before an idea crossed his mind. “Oh--hey, Skywarp, I need your optics on something. Got a klik?”

“What? Uh, sure.” The purple Seeker gave him a bit of a puzzled look while his brother walked off, no doubt to wait for him out in the corridor. “If you waited for everybody else to be gone, this must be something good, right?”

The door slid shut, and Jetfire folded his arms. “More like… suspicious. What do you know about how to gain access to Teletraan-II? And I mean in general, not at this very second.”

Skywarp quirked an optic ridge. “Access  _ was _ usually given on weird basis based on what information someone was  _ supposed _ to have--passcodes and the like were distributed in that way. If you weren’t meant to see something, you never knew it was there… normally.”

“Yeah, that’s about right. See, I’ve got a bit of a helm-scratcher here that goes against all that, and--before you ask, I’m not accusing you or anybody of anything. I’m saying… information that shouldn’t have been brought up WAS brought up. And I need to know how, and if this is safe for even you and me to be poking around in without being compromised.”

The question of whether or not he could trust Skywarp was not one that needed to be raised; as far as Jetfire was concerned, there was a certain honor among those who worked Special Ops. Even as the Seeker looked at him rather questioningly, he had faith that there was no one else up to the task. “Alright. I guess I owe you one, anyhow. What’ve you got?”

From his subspace Jetfire produced his personal datapad, and brought up the commands he had copied from Optimus’ terminal before allowing the Seeker to look. “It’s pull commands, obviously. But there’s lines that I’m fairly certain are decryption codes being run, and they’re calling out to naming conventions that I’ve never seen before. That… and it’s all being routed through the big computer downstairs, which nobody’s been able to talk to since Primus went quiet.”

A frown crossed Skywarp’s features, and there was a particular look that had appeared in his optics that the shuttle recognized immediately. He was intrigued. “Man, I’ve been trying to crack these archives for centuries… if somebody got through… wait. Was this done locally, or remote?”

“As much as I wish I could tell you… I have no idea,” Jetfire admitted. “For the moment, I’m assuming remote.” 

“But they left the prompt up? Mech, there’s… you didn’t try doing this for clout, right?”

“That ain’t my thing, Skywarp. You know that. I found it opened up on a terminal where it shouldn’t have been, so I know something’s going on. But there’s always a little signature to these things, y’know?” Jetfire said.

“Yeah. And you want me to pull that out while also making sure you can safely look at whatever’s in here. That right?”

The shuttle sighed, his wings dipping for a moment before he shook his helm. “Do what you have to; you’ve got the skills, and whatever’s in these files isn’t gonna get spread around.” He had to have that faith. “Find the decryption files and how they bypassed whatever system Scattorshot can’t figure out, and let me know if we can read whatever they pulled down.”

Skywarp fanned his wings slightly before tucking them back again, and transferred the files over to his own datapad. “Alright. You’ll know when I figure it out. But, uh, I’ve gotta ask… why me, big guy? Why not one of your usual little bugs, or even you? Just what are you tryin’ to get me mixed up with, huh?”

It was a valid line of questioning, and one that Jetfire had honestly expected sooner. “I’m gonna be real with you here, Skywarp: I don’t trust anybody else. Where I found this, it had no business being there, and I need somebody good enough to have put it there themselves to figure out who did it, how, and whatever the frag it is they pulled. That’s what you do best.” 

“And that’s what I like to hear,” Skywarp said, shooting Jetfire a sly grin. “Alright, fine. I’ll shoot you the details when I figure this stuff out, and I won’t spread it around, either. Unless it’s juicy.”

“Skywarp…”

The Seeker chuckled, turning to leave the room. “Have a good shift, big guy. Oh, and, one more thing.” He paused just at the door, turning back to catch Jetfire’s tired look. “Tell Starscream he needs to get a bit better at sneakin’ around, would ya? I’ve caught him on the cameras twice already. See ya.” And before the Autobot could get a word in, he spun on his pedes and strolled from the room, wings held high in triumph.

\---

**::LOCATION - Cybertron; Central City Command - SIC’s Office**

**::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 12:30 (MST)**

“Death is not supposed to die? Quite a dramatic statement, don’t you think?”

Rodimus had always been relatively easy to speak with; despite his status as reigning Prime for tens of millions of years before Optimus had come on the scene, he knew how to relax and bring himself down enough to be relatable. He sat in a seat opposite from Jetfire’s workstation, a leg crossed over the other to rest on his knee, as he leaned back in contemplation. “From all I have ever known about Unicron, he has always been more interested in chaos, entropy, and destruction--not death in general. If this really was Unicron speaking, why would he refer to himself in such a way?”

“Y’know, I hadn’t thought of that,” Jetfire admitted. “Not that I know much about the big guy, other than he’s, like, the opposite of Primus, and with a massive appetite on top of it. Just… I dunno. From everything Kicker said, it sounded like he was dead certain this was Unicron trying to speak to him.”

“And all because he couldn’t get through to Flame and Thirteen… it’s interesting.” Rodimus leaned back in his seat, taking on a more contemplative stance. “When I first met Alpha Q, they referred to me as Rodimus of Flame. I don’t go around flaunting the title of Inspiration to others, so I suppose that isn’t ENTIRELY wrong… but, if we’re going by that, Thirteen is… well, I believe he is one of the only members of the original Primes who is actually  _ confirmed  _ to be dead. Why would Death want for us to seek out someone who  _ is  _ offlined? Or did he mean the entirety of the Thirteen?”

Jetfire sat on the edge of his desk, just a few paces away from the Prime as he took in the other’s analysis. “See, that’s… another really good point. I mean--I’m not doubting you here, but… well, you met the kid. You know he’s--”

“He’s something, that’s for sure. Even I couldn’t communicate with Alpha Q on the same level that Kicker could,” Rodimus said, “and if Primus blessed him with a gift, then our dear Creator knows a lot more than we do. We can’t discount this dream of his, certainly. And if the spark is giving off bizarre readings at the same time… there has to be something. We’ve been feeding the spark as much synthetic energon as we can spare, but…”

“It’s like Red said: a spark can’t last without a frame. But, I mean… what would happen if it DID fizzle out?” Jetfire questioned. “I know, I know, Kicker and Primus and Q all said it NEEDS to keep burning, but… do we know if things could possibly get worse?”

The Prime’s expression seemed to harden then, but not out of anger or annoyance. “I would think so, yes. Imagine the EMP blast if it suddenly imploded. If we all didn’t die from that alone, what if it took out the sun? Or caused the tear to collapse? His spark is the size of a city--allowing it to die would kill us all on top of it, but… I have no idea what options we have right now. We can’t shove it into one of those planetoids, none of them could sustain a spark: they’re organic. As far as we know right now, all we can do is continue to fuel it. Perhaps we can spare a bit more, but until we regain access to Primus to see what he thinks we should do, that’s all we CAN do. On top of that, I don’t believe we should tell Optimus about this just yet.”

As loath as he was to admit it, Jetfire knew that Rodimus was right; the younger Prime would tear himself apart to find a solution even after he had just been dragged away from finding his way down to Primus. “Yeah… it’s for his own good. I don’t like keeping things from him, but he’s--you should’ve seen him, Rodimus. Just… he’s destroying himself over this.”

“I know. He’s always been that way, but even this is a bit outside of how I’ve known him to be,” said Rodimus. “We’re charting a course down to Primus while we work on reinforcing the lower levels, so that  _ should _ be one less problem for him to worry about. And, despite my fondness for Kicker, telling Optimus about a human’s dreams isn’t going to bring him any peace of processor, either. How… how is Kicker doing, by the way?”

“Eh… seemed alright, if not a bit weirded out, but I guess that comes with the territory. He got way too wrapped up in our mess and now it’s haunting him,” Jetfire admitted. “Hopefully getting that off his mind will let him go back to being a regular kid, y’know?”

That got a smirk from Rodimus. “He has what I call the Primely Burden: despite everything he says and does, he will never be “regular.” There is always something more to do. Speaking of which, Red Alert mentioned something that answered one question for me, but brought up quite a few others.” His smirk faded, and he shifted slightly in the seat to look straight on at the Second in Command. “Where is the Matrix, if not with Optimus?”

Jetfire’s frame stiffened, and his wings tilted back slightly in their joints. “What makes you think I know?”

“Because you were his Combination partner. His best friend. More than that, even. If anyone would know where he’s stashed it, for Primus knows what reason, it would be you. He sure isn’t telling.”

It took a moment for the shuttle to pull himself together, but he eventually replied, “It’s safe. He didn’t think he was worthy of it anymore, so I’ve been holding onto it. Don’t worry about that; it’s ready to be brought out when the time is right, but it’s in no danger. Why?”

“Oh come on; it wasn’t hard to see that his disposition has been just as it was when we were sharing it,” the Prime countered. “The short temper, the outbursts, that all comes forth when he hasn’t been holding onto it and actually reflecting. It’s no wonder that his spark is as bad off as it is.”

“Do you think that’s all?” Jetfire asked, his tone genuinely curious. “I mean… yeah, the stress of handling both armies during the first truce was heavy, even for him, and this last one started off with… well, him almost dying again to try and save Galvatron for a  _ second  _ time.”

Rodimus reset his optics. “Come again?  _ Second  _ time? When did he--no, nevermind. Yes, I do believe part of his problem has been him hiding from the Matrix, but that battle didn’t do him any good, either. Hopefully rest and reclaiming it will get him back to how he prefers to be. I know him well enough to understand that he loathes appearing so stressed, let alone feeling it.”

“Y’got that right,” Jetfire agreed. “I’ll talk to him about it when he’s up and doing stuff again. Maybe we can convince him it’s the right way to go for himself, and for the planet, and NOT bring up how he’s nearly thrown mechs through walls from the weight of it all.” He stood then, and was soon followed by Rodimus. “We’ve just all gotta stick together here, and remind ourselves that we aren’t alone here. I’m… really glad to have you back, honestly.”

Again the Prime smiled and gave Jetfire a pat on the back. “It’s odd, but it is good to be home. Perhaps Optimus and I will actually become friends this time. ...Don’t count on it, but we’ll try.”

From there the commanders parted, heading out into the base to resume their duties with both a renewed sense of purpose, and yet another weight set upon their shoulders.

\---

_ From the shadows burst forth two pinpricks of brilliant light, intertwined in a dance of passion and need. They were of one body as they spun through the dark, bouncing between pyres and beams toward a future where all would be made bright. At times they would part, mirroring one another’s path through the abyss, swirling and twirling about until they melded together once more, brighter than any other spot around them. _

_ An inseparable duo they were, bound together by fate and faith, pushing forth into a world so desperate for their connection. _

_ Yet before their journey had even begun, the connection was severed. Pulled apart in one swift motion, snatched out into the darkness from opposite directions, cut from the energies they were so desperate to echo back against. The air settled then, and the other lights that had followed them slowed to a relaxed bob and weave, blissfully unaware of what had just taken place, and all that would change in the wake of such destruction. _

\---

**::LOCATION - Cybertron; Central City Command - Security Wing**

**::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 17:00 (MST)**

Skywarp’s optics had not once moved from those lines, despite the concerned questioning of his brother and Scattorshot. A few pull commands meant nothing to most, but hidden within the code was information that he had never dreamed he would take in. The six filesets had decrypted on his throwaway datapad, where he had separated them into three different subjects: two sets per subject, each of which was so massive in size that he was quite impressed to know that their terrible connection was able to download it all.

What had puzzled him most, however, was the final line Jetfire had found in the prompt: “It is done, My Son.” Either it was someone’s signature, or a way of conveying another message all together. He had set aside the strange puzzle for the moment, and had instead focused his attention back to the three massive folders now staring him in the face. 

Oh, and how he loathed what he saw.

“Hey Shuttlebuns, it’s me,” he muttered through the commline. “I’m going to your quarters, and I need you to meet me there, now. It’s about those files. Oh--and don’t tell ol’ Fire Prime or Magnus where you’re going. Something tells me they won’t be too happy about all this.”

In the folder he had opened first were several files with coded names, each of which referenced a Project simply titled “NEXT.” In the second folder, for a different subject entirely, were files for a Project called “RAMHEAD.” In each folder there was a picture posted to the top, and while they were of different beings, he knew exactly who they were without even having to think.

Jetfire sent back a single line of text: “On it. Is it bad?”

With the datapad in hand, Skywarp stood and moved toward the corner of the room, where he disappeared into thin air with a soft “VOP” noise. “If this is what I think it is, then we might have just spent the last ten million years fighting the wrong thing in ways bigger than we know.”


	4. Family Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an excruciating start to his first official day in the workforce, Kicker returns home to find that his father's newfound joy and excitement comes at a cost that he is not willing to pay.

**::LOCATION - Earth; [UNKNOWN], Iowa**

**::TIME - 07:30 (MST)**

Falling, falling, falling; it felt as though an eternity had passed before Kicker came rolling to a stop at the bottom of the ravine, covered from head to toe in dirt and vegetation from his trip down over the edge. Somewhere nearby he could hear the wheel of his bike spinning, but the ringing in his ears eclipsed everything else.

Well, everything except the pain, of course.

Of what he could feel, his limbs were all attached--sore, but very much there. That was good. He could feel the ground beneath him, he could taste the dirt in his mouth, and he could see flashes of the shrubbery nearby. Also good, probably. Maybe. Making any moves at all, however, seemed an impossible feat; the first time he tried to push himself up, his hands had barely even responded, which was  _ not _ a good sign. The second go of it, at least, allowed him to shift his arms and legs just a bit, enough to let him know that they weren’t broken. Perhaps a bit bruised, but nothing that would leave him laying there for the rest of his life.

“Kick--Kicker? Ohhh, my god! No, no, Kicker are you--SHIT!”

It was a woman’s voice that reached him, sounding more worried than he could comprehend himself needing at the moment. What was strange about it, though, was the fact that he couldn’t immediately recognize who it belonged to; his mother had left, and Sally was probably still curled up in bed. A soft groan managed to croak from his throat as he turned his head to look, blinking a few times until his gaze focused enough to see the short form of his new boss sliding down the hill. “Wh--wha…?”

Molly, that was her name. Her dark curls bobbed a bit as she stumbled over, kneeling down in the mud with an expression of fear plastered across her face. “Oh--hon, are you--please, say something, alright? It’s Molly, I’m here, baby.”

This time, he coughed. “Ugh… guhh… wh-what are… why… here…?”

“Oh, thank goodness… TEGAN!” She turned to call back up the hill. “Teegs, he’s alive! Oh, thank god… hon, just lay still, it’s okay. Does anything feel broken?”

Why was she here? How could she have known where he was? On top of that, how long had he BEEN down in that hole? “I’m… ugh… mud… not great… don’t… think I’m broken…?”

He tried moving again, this time finding it was a bit easier than before. There were some aches and pains, notably scratches and what would likely be bruising on his arms later, and probably his legs as well, but his body was mostly there. Oh, how he was thankful for that helmet. “I’m… ugh, what…?”

“Shh, it’s alright. We knew you didn’t have a car yet, so we were swinging by to pick you up,” the woman explained, though he didn’t catch half of her words, still too dizzy to focus. “The guy who hit you is still up there, and he ain’t goin’ anywhere any time soon. Do you need an ambulance?”

Ambulance… Red Alert…? It wasn’t the connection he intended to make, but it felt right, somehow. Kicker shook his head and tried to boost himself up a bit more, finally realizing that his backpack was still, somehow, where it needed to be; that had probably cushioned his fall as well. Wait: the communicator. 

“Alright… okay, you look pretty roughed up, but it doesn’t seem too bad,” Molly continued, trying to look him over. “We’ll get you to the hospital, though.”

No, no that was the _last_ place he wanted to be. Kicker shook his head, taking another moment to try and pull his head together while he shifted to more of a kneeling position. His legs weren’t broken, he could breathe--and, considering how the stout woman had simply slid down, anything he had suffered otherwise was likely just superficial. All he needed to do was sound sane enough for her to relax a bit more. “I’ll… I just need… a few minutes. N-no need to… any of that… ugh…”

She set a hand on his arm. “Hon, if you don’t want us to take you all the way out there, then I’ll respect that. Some folks have their reasons. But if that’s the case, we’re at least gonna take you back up to your house and get you settled in there--forget work, this wasn’t your fault.”

“B-but…!” He had to be hearing her wrong; it was only his second day, he couldn’t tap out now. “I’ll--I can… I just need a little… a few more--”

“No, you’re going to rest this off and then we’ll check on things later,” Molly insisted. “It ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of. Who even drives a damn work van like that so fast down a two-lane road, honestly? Especially one so fancy. He’ll be buying you a new bike, that’s for sure.”

A new bike? He turned his head, feeling a sense of dread building in his gut until his eyes settled on the sight before him: the rear tire of his bicycle was completely bent inward, and the front wasn’t much better. All his personal freedom gone in the blink of an eye. “You’ve… you’ve gotta be kidding me…”

“Hey, we get it. A bike ain’t just a vehicle or a machine, it’s family. Gets you where you need to go. But he gave his life for you, and that helmet and bag of yours helped too.” She stood then, wiping the dirt from her pants. “Thank you for keeping Kicker safe, Bikey.” 

Machines and vehicles as family. Oh, if only she knew.

Eventually Tegan slid down the hill as well to lend a hand, carrying the fallen bike on one shoulder while Kicker leaned against the other as they climbed back up. On the side of the road he could see their work truck parked at an awkward angle, just in front of a very sleek, clean transportation van. It was an odd pearlescent white, but he thought he could see the outline of a logo that blended in with the paint. Standing beside the van was a very impatient-looking man with a very crisp-looking delivery uniform. 

“Ah… yeah, I’m sorry about that,” the man said, almost as though it was a formality. “These back-roads are pretty winding, and I didn’t see you until it was too late.”

From behind them, Molly gave a loud huff. “You couldn’t see a kid with a bright red helmet and backpack, with reflective markers on the bag and bike? Please.”

The man sighed. “I’m sorry--I’m glad the kid is alright, but I already gave your friend here the insurance information. Now, I’m already running late with this delivery, so if there’s anything else you need, just call that number, alright?”

Why was someone associated with a delivery company so unfazed by the fact that they had almost just killed another person with their work vehicle? As his faculties began to come crawling back, Kicker found himself growing more confused than angry. “This is… all residential over here.”

“Yeah, I know. I deliver out here all the time,” the man replied, annoyed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my drop-off point is just up that driveway there, so call my office and take it up with them if you want to sue.”

Kicker followed the man’s gesturing and blinked. That driveway led up to his house. They hadn’t ordered anything… had they? “Yeah, that’s… I live up there. Jones?”

Again, the man seemed bothered. “Yes, for Brian.”

Of course it was for his father. “That’s… that’s my dad, yeah. Ugh, okay, yeah I’m… I’ll go home for the day.”

“Good,” Tegan said, glaring at the driver, though her words were directed at Kicker. “We’ll set you up, and then we’ll tell your father he should be working with someone who won’t endanger the life of his son.”

The statement made Kicker wince, but the women probably took it as him being in pain. Much to no one’s surprise, the man rolled his eyes and stepped back into his vehicle, while Tegan and Molly led the teenager back to their truck. It was only a moment to drive, yes, but they weren’t about to make him walk back up the winding way to get to the house when he was in this shape. Regardless of their choice, he felt embarrassed; what a way to start his new life.

In front of them the delivery van had driven up the hill and towards the back of the house, which Kicker found to be a bit odd; sure, the deck door was a bit easier to get things through, but the way down to his father’s lab was best accessed from the front. Tegan decided to follow along, likely assuming it would be the best way to get him inside, and to inform his father of what had happened. She asked, “Does going back here work?”

“Y-yeah, it should be fine,” he replied, glancing towards the garage’s second story window as they moved past it. Did the Minicons know to stay hidden? “Thanks for the help… you didn’t have to--”

She cut him off as they pulled up to the end of the driveway. “Yes, we did. We  _ could  _ help, so we did. If you have the means, then you use them. Is that your old man?”

There wasn’t much time to allow for her words to settle in; Kicker turned to look towards the house, where he saw his father stepping out the back door in a dress shirt and dark work jeans. It was a strange look for him, but he appeared to at least be more cleaned-up now than he had in the last several weeks. “Y-yeah, that’s him… I can get myself in from here.”

Molly said, “I’m sure you can, but we’re gonna let him know, okay?” 

How were they both so kind? He didn’t have the heart to tell them that the man wouldn’t care, so he merely nodded to the women as all three of them climbed out of the truck and shambled towards the house.

The delivery driver had already stepped out and handed Brian a clipboard, ignoring the three as he went around to the back of his van to unlock it. Before he could give the manifest a good looking-over, however, he managed a double-take towards the beat-up truck behind the shiny, clean van. “What in the--Kicker…?”

“Hey,” the teen managed, trying not to look him in the eye while he tried to pull his bike out of the truck bed--Tegan intervened and grabbed it herself. “Just had a bit of a tumble down the driveway, that’s all.”

“No, it’s not,” Molly corrected. “Sorry to intrude, Mr. Jones--Kicker just started working for us yesterday. I’m Molly, that’s Tegan.”

“Oh? Really?” It was difficult to tell whether he was just humoring her, or genuinely surprised. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. You can call me Brian, by the way.”

Ugh. Kicker rolled his eyes, and adjusted his backpack; he had to make sure everything was in there when he got inside, but for the moment, his path was blocked. He had to take this punishment. “Okay, yeah--there was an accident. Bike didn’t make it.”

“Your delivery guy here ran Kicker off the road,” Tegan explained. There was a depth to her voice that reminded him of how Optimus spoke when he was trying to sound firm and imposing, and it instinctively made him stand up a bit straighter; Brian was unfazed. “Didn’t stop, either. Not until we cut him off, anyway.”

Brian looked between the delivery driver and his son and sighed. “I suppose I’ll take care of that later, then. Are you staying home for the day?” He seemed annoyed to some extent, but also as though he was merely asking out of obligation rather than concern--that point was not lost on either woman. 

“Absolutely he is,” Molly said firmly. “We’ll check in tomorrow, but he’s off with pay for today. We’ll be calling into the company to complain as well, so you can reference us in your own report.”

At that point he had finally started going through the clipboard, reading it over before glancing at the van, then at the trio headed towards the porch. “Sounds like your luck finally came through again, eh Kicker?”

While the teenager frowned at the comment, Tegan looked rather annoyed. “Mr. Jones--”

“ _ Doctor _ Jones, if you must, but Brian is fine.”

“--Your son could have been seriously injured back there, and this idiot doesn’t even seem to give a damn. Doesn’t that matter to you? At all?”

“Of course it does; but Kicker  _ wasn’t _ seriously hurt, right?”

This was getting difficult to listen to. “Dad--”

“Right. So, other than the loss of a bike, everything is fine. Go on inside, Kicker; I’ll take care of this out here.”

Beside him, his bosses seemed stunned; this was how things usually went, the teen thought. “Thanks… I’ll call you later to check in, okay? Y-you should get back, Davey’s g-gonna be at the shop with his generator soon.” He didn’t want to bother them further, nor let them see just how awkward things were with his father around.

Tegan stood up a bit straighter, glaring at his father, before Molly put a hand on her arm. “Okay, hon. Make SURE you call us, or we’ll come back and check on ya. That’s a threat, okay?”

He smiled. “Alright. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

The women gave Brian their own separate confused, disapproving looks before heading back to the truck, pulling away slowly as Kicker trudged towards the door. He just wanted to lie down, at this point--check on the communicator, maybe eat something, and move past this massive setback. For every one thing that went right, ten thousand others had to go wrong, didn’t they?

“Oh, one thing before you go in,” Brian called. He hadn’t looked up from the clipboard yet. 

Kicker turned, and watched curiously as a large metal crate was moved out of the van on a motorized ramp. “What? I cleaned up my stuff, and I haven’t been poking around yours, either.”

“Good. But, just so you know, I have some very important investors coming by today for dinner and a presentation, so if you could make sure things are tidied, I would appreciate it.”

“Are you--I’m not gonna be cleaning, I just got  _ hit  _ by a  _ car _ ! And Highwire’s always got things looking great,” the teen said, almost genuinely stunned by such a brazen request.

“Right, get those three to stay in the loft, too. I’ll be busy with preparations, so it’s in your hands today.” He watched as the driver pushed the crate over towards a particular square on the pavement before returning to van.

The unimpressed tone, the genuine disinterest in anything but his own work--Kicker remembered this version of his father.  _ This  _ was the man that had dragged his family off into space for his own personal gain;  _ this _ was the man who had tried to hoard an entire planet’s supplies of a precious resource despite receiving the aid of aliens who would inevitably starve without it. Standing in front of him now was  _ Doctor  _ Brian Jones: scientist, public speaker, and self-proclaimed genius. Oh, how Kicker had  _ not  _ missed this man; anger prickled in the back of his mind, an ugly emotion that he had worked very hard to keep locked away over the last few months. Despite everything that had happened, his father was still the same.

Which, of course, raised one question in his mind: What had managed to give him back his spark?

“Whatever,” the teen grunted. By then the driver had returned with a second box, this one a bit smaller, but still metallic--both had that same symbol on the side that the van did, but he still couldn’t recognize it. “Does mom know?”

“Of course she does.” Brain signed the clipboard and handed it back to the driver, who accepted it with a tip of his hat before heading back to the van. Not once did he look over at Kicker. “She won’t be in town for dinner, so do get Sureshock to help Sally cook, would you? I need to get back to work.”

The final order was one step too far: despite his pain, Kicker stepped forward and slammed his hand down on the railing beside his father, who flinched slightly before looking at him, genuinely confused. “I’m not your little errand boy! If they’re your friends, why don’t you cook?! And I know you don’t care that I just got hurt, but could you maybe ACT like you do instead of embarrassing me in front of my new bosses?!” 

For a moment the scientist fell silent, studying Kicker’s angered expression before he sighed; the van was pulling away by then. “Of course I care, don’t be ridiculous. You and I know you’ve had worse than that, though--it’s fine. Now, I’ll be in the lab--”

“DAD.” Kicker smacked the railing again. “FORGET the STUPID PROJECTS and LISTEN to me!” 

“If you’re that hurt, then just go inside and take a nap--you’ll walk it off, just as you always do, and that’s a  _ compliment _ .” Without looking back at him, Brain waved to Kicker dismissively before stepping over to the driveway where the crates were. There was a post next to them, which he twisted the top of--was that an elevator?”

Kicker could hardly believe what he was seeing; why was he just walking away like that? “No, we’re talking NOW.” Anger-fueled adrenaline coursed through his veins as he pushed himself to hobble over toward the crates, nearly slipping as the entire section of driveway began to sink down into the ground. In a fit of frustration, he kicked out at the smaller box on top. His foot connected with the top of it, a painful hit, sure, but another sensation burst through him at the same time, one so terrifyingly familiar that it caused him to forget any other hurt in his body.

His hair was standing on-end, glowing a bright gold.

* * *

Before he could register what had happened, the entry had closed with a false concrete panel that slid into place where the elevator had been mere seconds before, taking with it his father and the two mysterious crates. Kicker had simply stood there, dumbfounded and in shock for close to ten seconds before regaining himself and his composure. His mind was racing--energon. The how’s and the why’s came streaming through his mind in a rush of confusion before he shook his head and stomped on the ground in frustration.

It was something that he should have seen coming; not only did his father  _ have  _ raw energon, a resource that was supposed to have been completely drained from Earth and all other surrounding worlds, but it was also being kept in their home, and being used for who knew what.

With fury and adrenaline pumping through his veins, Kicker managed to drag himself into the house and down the hall, where he proceeded to pound on the basement door. “DAD! OPEN UP  _ RIGHT NOW _ !” He tried the handle; locked, of course. As always. Standing there slamming his fist against the heavy wooden surface for a few more minutes proved fruitless as well, giving him nothing but an aching wrist and hand in the end. What else could he have been expecting?

He managed to stagger back up to his room then, dumping the contents of his backpack out onto the bed before he needed to brace against the side table for balance; exhaustion. Right… not only had he not eaten anything yet, but pushing himself through getting hit by a car with nothing but spite was not something his body seemed to be happy with. Carefully, he eased himself down to sit on the bed and picked up the lunch his mother had packed for him. While a bit shaken up, the remnants of the roast beef and garden-grown potatoes were mostly unharmed. The food being cold didn’t bother him much, either; so long as it was something being put in his body, that was probably fine.

Energy… energon… no--he shook his head again, trying to push the thought from his mind, but it proved to be quite aggressive. What was he going to do with this? Rather, what was his father even doing with it? On top of that, what else could have been in those crates? There were too many possibilities, and all of them filled him with disgust.

As he sorted through the rest of his belongings, Kicker was relieved to find that the phone was still intact--not that he should have been surprised, of course, but part of him HAD been worried. Unsurprisingly, there were no updates from Jetfire, nor any other Cybertronian that might have known about the thing. Should he tell them?  _ ‘Hey, I know my dad supposedly sapped up all of your guys’ only source of fuel in the universe, but it turns out he’s actually got some hidden here! Come and get it!’  _ It was a stupid idea. 

He had to try something on his own.

With his lunch in-hand, Kicker pulled himself over to the desk and set to work. That logo--if he could figure out what shipping company that logo was associated with, perhaps he could… something. Who would be getting his father raw energon, and why? What was being done? At the moment, the potential “how” was something that made him feel a bit ill, but he had to focus on the rest first. 

Yet before his hands neared the keyboard, he felt himself pause; what was he even going to do with the information? Confronting his father was, of course, both useless and impossible, and he could see no good coming from reporting the man back to the authorities watching their every move. Did they already know? Had that been the reason for their unprompted visit the night before…?

The first search he managed to make was for shipping companies with locations in the surrounding counties; unsurprisingly, the “Big Three” were at the top, along with a few other small, local facilities whose logos weren’t even close to the vague shapes he had seen on the side of the van. After that, he attempted to narrow his parameters and search for something he realized should have come first: national shipping companies that would transport hazardous materials. Given how radioactive and explosive raw energon could be, he doubted that there would be many willing to take the massive risks and liabilities that would be involved. Unsurprisingly, there weren’t any within a few hundred miles, and even then, it seemed they were all government-affiliated.

In his mind, that could only mean his father was receiving them directly from some unknown supplier--and since no one knew of energon outside of the government and a few contractors… 

“Does he have, like... a mining operation…?”

Just as the thought entered his mind, he heard a ping from his phone--his personal one. The surprise sent him jumping up in his seat a bit, nearly tipping his food onto the floor, but he grabbed it at the last minute. Over on his bed, it buzzed again; it was an older smart phone, but he wasn’t one to message others very often, so he didn’t think he needed much more than that. Kicker scooted the chair backward across the room, and, upon checking the screen, he was even more startled to see who had messaged him: His mother? Oh, right… she thought he was at work. Her first text was asking if he had gotten into the office safely-- ha. --and the second said to let her know if he needed anything at all. Anything…?

Something stirred in his stomach, though whether it was anxiety or hunger he couldn’t tell; stuffing a few fork-fulls of food down his throat didn’t seem to quell the sensation, but it did allow him to take a moment to think. Should he tell her about his encounter? What would she even be able to do? He knew tensions between his parents had been growing over the last few months, but they did their best to keep it away from himself and Sally. Was it possible that she knew and was merely trying to distance herself, or were his father’s experiments being hidden from her as well? More than likely, he felt it was probably a mixture of the two.

It was no secret that their calls and texts were being monitored--Kicker never quite cared that some government drone was reading his every word, considering he never said anything to anyone about the Cybertronians, but this was different. This time, he had to think carefully as he wrote up his message, knowing someone, somewhere, would likely step in if he was a bit too open with his words.

_ ‘Molly brought me home since I tried going into work after a car hit me lol. Don’t worry, I’m okay, just a bit bruised up, but the bike’s shot. I’m in my room eating the lunch you made me right now, but I promised I’d call her to take me to the ER if I still feel bad later.’ _

What else should he say? He knew it would be enough to get his mother to call him, his bosses, and probably the National Guard as soon as she read it. More than likely, she’d use the calling app that wasn’t normally monitored or recorded, which was the ideal method of communication for when they actually wanted to share their feelings, but something told him that he needed to send  _ this _ information through the standard messenger.   
  
If, for some reason, he needed an alibi to protect himself, his bosses, the Minicons, or someone else, this would be the only way he could establish it.

Steeling himself for the conversation to come, he hit send and returned to devouring his meal; apparently anxiety and hunger felt quite similar, after all. Despite the cold it was refreshing and flavorful, giving Kicker the energy he needed to sit up a bit straighter and try to plan out his next move. At least, that was the theory--as though on schedule, his phone began to ring. Of course; his mother. He set his food aside and took in a deep breath before answering, and put on a fake smile despite the fact that she couldn’t see him. “H-hey mom--”

“Kicker, oh my god--what happened?!” There was a tension in her voice that was masking her panic as much as it could, but it couldn’t hide everything. “Why are you at home, go to the doctor!”

“Mom, mom, it’s okay! I promise, I’m fine. A delivery guy came around the corner too fast and hit the back tire of my bike,” he explained, “and I went rolling down into the ravine. I had my helmet on, and I’m just a bit sore everywhere else.”

“But why didn’t you go to the hospital?” she asked again. “And don’t say anything about not wanting to bother the doctors: that’s why they’re doctors. Bother them when something happens to you.”

At least someone around here cared about his well-being. “Because nothing’s broken or sprained, I just rolled in the mud. So I’m home--”

“Do you have the heating pad?”

“Yes,” he lied.   
  
“And you’ve showered off, changed, and are in bed?”

Again, he lied, “Yes, mom. My bosses made sure I got home. They knew I don’t have a car, so they were gonna come pick me up as a surprise. Dad was outside when they brought me up, so they let him know what happened.”

That was when her tone changed; gone was Miranda’s worry, replaced then by a strange, suspicious-sounding concern. She asked, “And what did he say?”

Kicker shrugged. “Not much; he was more worried about his delivery. And, yeah, it was the same one that caused me to go rolling. Didn’t really expect for him to care much, but--”

“A delivery for him?” She didn’t seem to question her son’s lack of faith in his father’s care, but this piqued her interest--and more suspicion. “He didn’t say anything to me about a delivery; I thought he was supposed to be sending things  _ out _ today.” 

This was it; the part of the conversation he had been dreading. “It’s got something to do with an investor dinner he’s throwing tonight.”

“He’s doing  _ WHAT _ ? Don’t… are you kidding me, Brian…” She took the phone away for a moment to mutter something before coming back with her more level-sounding tone of concern and said, “Kicker, I’m… honey, I’m so sorry you were hurt today, and that I’m not there to help.”

“It’s… thanks, mom. I’ll be okay. Worst case, I’ll just ask Sureshock to help me out--she’s like another mom, sometimes.” 

The comment got a chuckle from his mother, and a sigh of relief; she was trying to keep herself calm for his sake. “Well, I’ll make sure there’s dinner ordered for you, at least. Sally’s staying at a friend’s house for the next couple of days, so I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be? She’s the social one, I don’t care.”

“I just wanted you to be aware,” Miranda said, “since you went to bed so early last night. I’ll call your father in a little bit to check in, but if you need ANYTHING at all, take your bosses up on their offer--they’re good people. Is there anything else I can do for you right now, dear?”

Kicker let out a soft sigh before shaking his head; he had to tell her. “Just… I don’t know who else to tell, but. That delivery…? I got close to it, and it… it’s energon, mom.”

For a few moments, the line was silent; all he could hear on the other end was the soft, ambient noise of an office in the background, and his mother’s grip on her phone shifting slightly. Eventually, she said, “Get some rest, Chad. I love you, no matter what. And I’m very, very proud of you.”

“I love you too, mom.” She never called him by his first name, even when he was acting like a nasty little brat--just the sound of it was like a punch to the gut. Something was going through her mind, and he couldn’t tell what. “Have a good day at work, and I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just… stay in your room, or with the Minicons, okay?”

“Alright. I promise.” As soon as he gave his word, the line clicked dead; she was gone, just like that. 

Kicker sat in the quiet of his room for a good while after that, lingering in the chair as he picked at the rest of his food, and mindlessly scrolled around through a few repair guides that Tegan had sent him links to the night before. While the conversation hadn’t exactly left a sour taste in his mouth, part of him felt guilty for telling his mother about what he had felt earlier. Someone needed to be told, but why could he only bring himself to tell  _ her _ ? Sure, the Autobots wouldn’t have been able to do anything, and if he had told their government contacts, what would they even do? None of them cared about what the precious resource meant to the Cybertronians--they only cared that it stayed under lock-and-key, forbidden knowledge to all but the most powerful of men in suits. Alexis might have been able to figure something out, but in the end, she would have been mostly powerless as well.

Maybe his subconscious just felt his mother was the only one who  _ could _ do something; perhaps it felt there was a chance that she could still have some pull over his father’s warped sense of morality. It was a slim chance, but one that he now had to rely on.

Just as he finished up his breakfast-turned-lunch, and set the container down to crawl into bed, there came a knock at his door. “Kicker? Turns out I could use your help with something, after all. Mind coming downstairs for a second?” 

It was Brian.

Kicker froze in place, his gaze fixed on the door; every hair on his body seemed to stand on-end as the adrenaline began pumping through him. This was bizarre behavior, even for his father; it had been  _ years _ since the man had asked for his help with anything--and when he had, it was always something that would put his life or mental health in danger, like going through an asteroid belt to try and find energon ore by himself. After their encounter earlier in the morning, what would his father possibly want him to help with?

Unless, of course, he hadn’t seen the encounter as anything but normal.

Instead of answering, Kicker continued to stay as still as possible, hoping his father would think he was trying to sleep off what had happened. It felt as though minutes ticked by as he strained to hear anything from his father through the closed door, be it footsteps or another call, but nothing came until he finally shifted to crawl into the bed. There was a sigh from just outside, and the muffled footfalls of Brian’s shoes going back towards the stairs.

Why had he hidden? Why hadn’t he stepped out to see what was being asked of him? Kicker shook his head and crawled under the covers, though he knew that he wouldn’t be getting sleep any time soon; there was too much plaguing his mind. His phone buzzed, indicating another text message, and one glance at the screen before he finally rolled over to shut out the world showed that it was from his father. More than likely asking him to come down whenever he awoke, the teen reasoned.

Except, it buzzed again. And then again, then two times more. Kicker frowned, and rolled back over grudgingly to grab it and study the screen. Two of the messages were, in fact, from Brian--the first confirming his original theory, and the second inviting him to the investor dinner that night. Bizarre, but not exactly what had him baffled. It was the three that came after which made him sit up, confused, and actually read through them.

_ ‘How doth my Light choose His Disciples? To what ends might Entropy bend His plans?’ _

_ ‘Kicker, call me when you have a free moment. I might have work for you! - A.’ _

_ ‘The Shadow is stirring, Guardian. Will your chat with Thirteen’s Hunter have been enough to change the flow of fate? Or will you take your mantle and restore balance?’ _

Of  **course** Unicron knew the absolute worst time to try and get into contact with him. As much as he wanted to ignore all of it, particularly Alexis’ well-meaning but poorly-timed message, the fact that the embodiment of chaos had reached out to him through this new, more personal manner than merely instant message was not something he could put off for very long. What was going on this time?

The header was empty; no return phone number or email address, but that wasn’t exactly surprising. Rather than try to think about it, Kicker sent a rather curt reply to try and get the deity to settle down: _‘Either use names I know or stop it, cuz I don’t have time for cryptic junk. I told them, they’re gonna deal with it. They won’t let you die.’_

Just as he hit send--which failed to be delivered, because of course it did--another message from his father came through. ‘Just so you know, the investors are really excited to meet you tonight. Come on down when you’re up and I can show you what we’ll be presenting.’

He wasn’t going to be able to get out of this, was he? Why was this man suddenly so interested in having him around, especially when the teen now knew exactly what was being taken down into the lab? Something about the situation made him feel ill--this would be bad, no matter which route he took. Groaning to himself, and completely regretting the decision at the same time, Kicker pushed himself up from the bed, pocketing his phone as he trudged out of his room and down the stairs. His father was standing in the kitchen while Highwire mopped the living room floor, but the older man looked up as soon as his son got to the bottom of the stairs. As expected, he didn’t seem at all bothered by what had happened earlier. “There you are! I know you were trying to sleep off that little tumble, but I figured you’d want to be prepared for tonight.”

Kicker frowned. “Yeah, feeling a  _ ton  _ better already.”

“Fantastic!” Brian exclaimed, oblivious to the sarcasm. “I know you’ve been a bit in the dark on this project, but it’s really going to push Jones Technologies into the forefront of the industrial world!”

“Did you… wait, Jones Technologies…?”

A smile and a nod from his father. “There’s not enough to be an LLC just yet, but I’m hoping to change that tonight. First off--that delivery van from this morning? Didn’t even hear it leave, did you?”

The frown that Kicker wore seemed to grow a bit deeper. “Yeah, didn’t hear it when it rammed into me, either.”

“Well, that’s because of its new engine! Fully electric, and a battery that never needs to be recharged,” replied Brian. “That model isn’t going to be given to the public just yet--it needs a bit more road testing, but we’ll be showing it off tonight. That’s not the star of the show, however.” Casting a quick glance at Highwire, who seemed oblivious to the discussion, he motioned for Kicker to follow him as he walked towards the basement. In the last eight months that they had lived there, never once had Kicker gone down into his father’s lab. “I think it’s finally time for you to see what I’ve got in store for us.”

Despite every instinct screaming at him to bolt back upstairs and never look back, the teen’s curiosity had him moving forward, slowly making his way down the hall and towards the basement. “Why do you keep saying we and us?”

“Because this is your future as well, Kicker,” his father said. He keyed in a passcode on the door’s handle before heading inside, while his son kept close at his heels. “You have a way of convincing people to get a job done, and that natural talent for finding what we need to expand our production.”

That struck a nerve, and Kicker froze mid-step as his father continued down. “I’m not a bloodhound, dad. And I’m not making anybody do anything.”

“Don’t worry; a little speech here and there is all you’ll need to do at the start, nothing cruel and unusual,” Brain called back. “Now come on, you don’t even know what I’ve got to show you yet! You’re going to love it, I promise.”

At the bottom of the stairs he stopped in front of another locked door, typing in a different code before stepping aside to motion for Kicker to go ahead of him. There seemed to be another few closed doors down the surprisingly gleaming hall, but from the entryway to the opened room, the teen could see what appeared to be a museum-like setup. In a glass cabinet just across from the door was his old space-suit, now scrubbed free of all the super energon and burn marks that had marred it in battle. Not only that, but the Autobrand on the chestplate was gone as well. The sight of it made that queasy feeling in his stomach return once again, but he tried to ignore it as he stepped inside to look at everything else.

Every little gadget had a plaque in front of it that gave a name and a brief synopsis of its function, but despite the variety of uses, Kicker could not ignore one glaring point: they all appeared to be inspired by Cybertronian designs. Sleek and smooth in some ways, like tools that he expected to see in a medbay, but also blocky as though they would be trying to blend into the background of a computer lab back in Ocean City. The first object he spotted looked like a scaled-down version of the Autobot Datapads, and beside it was some sort of scanner that he had remembered seeing Rodimus use to inspect someone’s injuries--its own plaque said it could detect what was wrong with a car’s electronics in the blink of an eye.

“Dad… what’s going on here? None of this is yours,” Kicker said, picking up the datapad with a look of disdain in his eyes. The logo that he had seen on the side of the van was on both devices. “The Cybertronians came up with all this stuff.”

“This is the future, Kicker-- _ our _ future.” Brian walked into the room with long, confident strides, and picked up what looked like a miniature version of the Omnicons’ massive hand drills; it was sleek and clean, a dazzling pearlescent white with no visible battery pack. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought it came straight out of a futuristic video game. “We take inspiration from near and far, and turn it into something that no one in the public has ever seen before.”

“Because it’s not ours,” Kicker repeated. “They haven’t seen it because it’s  _ alien  _ technology. Or, at least, it  _ looks  _ like it is.”

Something seemed to change in his father’s smile as he spoke, which made a cold shiver shoot down his back. “Dad… what  _ is _ all this? This… this  _ is _ just regular tech with a new paint job, right?” It had to be.

“Kicker, we were truly blessed to have been given what we were by those boys, and who would I be to turn away such wonderful gifts?” Brian’s expression was one of genuine pride, which somehow made the whole thing feel that much more sinister. “The Cybertronians are a very giving and trusting species, and to use them as inspiration is the greatest way that I can possibly show my thanks.”

“And you’re gonna expect for me to say that all of these things came from your imagination? The great Brian Jones thought up a fancy power drill and just made it happen?” Kicker took a step forward to grab the drill from his father’s hands, but as soon as his hand touched the casing, it happened again: the hair on his head stood on-end, and the familiar sensation of pulsing energy vibrated through his body. Raw energon. He recoiled within an instant, stumbling back to nearly fall into a table behind him. “WHAT?! No. No, you do not--”

The doctor’s smile never faded. “Don’t worry, it’s just the prototype while we finish working out the kinks in refining the ore; Omnicons are rather protective of their own work, and Terrorcons can only really seem to make raw energon a bit more explosive--can’t exactly market that, can we?”

“Energon doesn’t belong to us,” countered the teen. “They need it to survive, we don’t. You can’t do this to them--you have to give it back.”

“One little chunk of ore isn’t even enough to get one of them to roll out of bed, Kicker. Relax. Now, will you listen to what I need you to do?” 

Kicker stood up straight and glared at the man. “No, I’m not: you’re gonna listen to me. You’re gonna give back the energon and everything you’ve got from them. It’s not yours to take.”

Brian sighed and shook his head. “Kicker, you’re being unreasonable--I didn’t raise you to be like this.”

“You didn’t raise me to do ANYTHING but YOUR dirty work!” He slammed his fist into the case that displayed his space suit and glared at the man. “And I’m NOT gonna do it anymore, especially if it’s hurting my friends.”

“How does any of this hurt them? Do you see anyone being  _ actively  _ hurt? You’re really not seeing the bigger picture here, son,” the doctor corrected. “This is the future of our family name.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t  _ want  _ a family name if it’s gonna mean people who I care about die of starvation. I don’t want ANY of this.” He stormed out of the room then, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to catch his breath and calm down. It had been too much to take in at once, and now the pains from his accident were beginning to creep into existence once again as the adrenaline wore off. Why was this happening, why here, why now? Why at all? He staggered up the stairs, slamming the door behind him before he leaned back against it, sliding down to sit on the floor. It was too much to take in at once.

_ Beeeep beepbeep brrrreeep? _

It was Highwire. The Minicon had paused its cleaning as soon as it heard him slam the door, setting the mop aside to check on its friend. Kicker gave a weak smile and shook his head, which earned another short set of chirps and whirls, all of which sounded quite concerned. “Y-yeah, sure… yeah, I’d like that.”

Without another sound Highwire sat beside him, leaning against the teen while hugging him with one arm. Kicker accepted the gesture, returning it with a half-hug of his own while he tried to collect his thoughts. “It’s gonna be okay… I promise. I’ll… figure this out, somehow. I’m not gonna let anyone else get hurt, especially you guys.”

Perhaps this was what Unicron meant when calling him the Guardian: protecting those who had no way to defend themselves, and serving justice to those who sought to harm them. But how was he supposed to undo all of this? If even their government handlers couldn’t dissuade Brian Jones, then who could? 

As he listened to the soft hum of his friend’s little engines, an idea crossed his mind: maybe the answers he needed were hidden behind one of those other doors--doors he could only access when his father wasn’t around. In one brief moment, he had hatched a plan: that stupid dinner party might be his only chance at ending this all before it had even begun.


	5. Secrets Taken from the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The contents of a group of files that should never have been downloaded are sorted through by three frustrated fliers, while one dedicated Prime proves, yet again, that even the most powerful medications cannot keep him down when duty calls.

**::LOCATION - Cybertron; Central City Command - Command Residence Level**

**::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 17:00 (MST)**

Heavy pedefalls echoed through the halls of the busy compound as Jetfire sprinted full-tilt towards the lift. Slaggit, slaggit, slaggit all--why now? Why couldn’t Skywarp have waited? There wasn’t an issue with them meeting in his personal quarters; really, it was likely the safest place within the entirety of Central City for them to discuss whatever the Seeker had managed to decode. The problem in this instance, however, came to rest upon just what else was in his room at the time.

Jetfire hadn’t quite found the time to warn someone that they would probably have a guest that night, and the encounter that he was expecting to see downstairs was one he had been hoping to avoid. 

There was barely enough time for the doors of the lift to part before the shuttle squeezed through them and ran down towards his quarters, where he pinged in a few strides away so that he could skid through the entrance and into the room without slowing down. He could hear loud, metallic hissing before he even saw inside; that was bad. Much to his dismay, the scene he hadn’t wanted to see was unfolding right in front of him.

In the center of the room stood Skywarp, who held a shadowy dagger in one servo, and a stack of datapads was tucked under his other arm while his wings flared outward and upward in warning. Standing atop the table in front of him, blaster poised and ready to fire upon the purple Seeker, was none other than Starscream, whose flared armor produced the loud hiss of hydraulics and steam as a warning call. “How  _ dare  _ you intrude on this place!” 

“Me, intruding? That’s real funny coming from you, amigo,” countered Skywarp, a snarl curling out from his own engines. “Real good job faking your death back there--might have even fallen for it myself if I hadn’t seen you slinking around the ruins; ghosts usually do a better job of staying hidden.”

Jetfire moved in close to stand in front of Skywarp, putting himself between the pair as best he could. “Whoa, whoa, c’mon fellas, let’s take it down a gear. Nights, put the gun down; I invited him here. Warp, where… get that creepy slaggin’ knife out of here too, alright? I hate that thing.”

“Do you hate the knife, or how it nearly took your face off?” There was an uneasy ex-vent from Skywarp as he obeyed the order, setting his blade back beneath his wing array, before he stepped around to frown at the mech on the table. “And Nights? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It is my new designation, you space-jumping little scrapmetal,” growled the other. “Nightscream.”

Skywarp snorted. “Dramatic and ridiculous, just like you. Whatever. You gonna put the gun away, or do I gotta do that for you?”

Before Nightscream could comment, Jetfire had stepped forward to gently pull the blaster from the mech’s servos. “C’mon, he’s not gonna do anything. I promise. Like I said before, he’s here because I asked him to come… I just didn’t know he’d show up so soon, otherwise I would’ve told you sooner.”

There was a long pause as Nightscream studied the pair, shifting his gaze from Skywarps’ annoyed features to the hidden, pleading expression that Jetfire was likely giving him behind that mask. Eventually, he allowed his wings to lower slightly, though his field still gave off an enduring sense of caution. “Fine. But if he tries anything, I won’t hold back.”

“Alright, that’s acceptable,” Jetfire said, clearly relieved. He stepped away from Skywarp in order to help the other down from his defensive perch, but threw the former a wary glance of his own. “So, yeah. He’s been staying in here while trying to figure out what he wants to do from here on out. No real memories and all, y’know? Gotta build from the ground up, and I’m willing to help.”

“Sounds gross,” Skywarp stated flatly, uninterested in the background. “Mech, I don’t care what you all are doin’ in here, or whether he’s alive or not. We ain’t friends, and I’ve got a job to do that I’m kind of actually enjoying.” He set down the stack of datapads and leaned over the table to access its control panel, where he set up the projection screen to pop up in its center. “Well, for the most part, anyway. It’s finding out some of the nastier bits that I’m not too fond of.”

“Nastier bits of what?” Nightscream asked, unamused. Obviously, he was now a part of this conversation.

Jetfire stood between the pair, picking up one of the files as he settled in to glance at the projection. “I found some files hanging around that I’ve never seen before, and probably nobody should have access to--from the looks of it, they’re all pre-war, and were encrypted on a level that I haven’t seen since I started out in this line of work.”

“And there’s a good reason for that, amigo,” Skywarp said. “Now… you didn’t tell nobody else about this, right?”

A nod from the shuttle. “Not a single spark knows what’s going on but you and me… and now Nights, of course.”

“Good. Because, from the looks of things, nobody wants even us to know about what went down.” Picking up his personal datapad, the assassin connected it to the tabletop terminal and opened what appeared to be one of the main logs from the files provided. “I started going through the Decepticon stuff first, since I can crack those codes in my recharge cycle, but after reading through just a couple of documents, I learned that I needed the Autobot take on things first. It’s no surprise that the Decepticon Council wanted to stir things up--like, everybody knew that, and those who were in denial are now mostly dead, so who gives a frag--but I didn’t like something I saw.”

Nightscream leaned in, squinting a bit at the document. “Are these… journal entries?”

“Yup. Well, some of them are,” Skywarp explained. “It’s a good mix of journals, scientific logs, blueprints, programming docs, and Council communications. So, the Autobots… let’s start with a quick history lesson. Who was Prime when the shooting first started?”

“Rodimus,” answered Jetfire. “Optimus got the Matrix a few weeks in.”

“That’s the public record, too. Now, where’d they find that plucky little truck?”

The shuttle paused before answering, tilting his helm. “What… alright, I’m… he was a quick-starter in the Peace Enforcers. One of the only mechs there who never got a single complaint on the street about his tactics, and was awkward, but good with people.”

“Sure, right… but where’d he  _ come from _ ? How’d they just  _ happen  _ to find a guy like that right on the street, who joined up in something like the Enforcers with no prior record of existing anywhere?”

“C’mon, Warp. What are you getting at?”

Skywarp took a hard look at Jetfire and flicked his wing. “What was your job before the war, big bird?”

Another pause. “Security and Analytics for the Autobot Council. Nothing came in or out that I didn’t know about.”

“So you  _ know  _ you’re talking out of your exhaust pipes right now when you’re tryin’ to feed me those lines.”

Nightscream had begun scrolling through one of the first documents he could see in the fileset; it appeared to him to be someone’s notes, though they were organized in an odd way. “Details of Scan Seventeen… monitoring movement... spark separation improbable.”

“You’re jumpin’ ahead a bit there, Spookscream,” Skywarp commented, still staring directly at Jetfire. “Why don’t you fill us in before I pull out the receipts, Jets? I’d like to hear what you know first.” 

It took a few moments for Jetfire to pull his thoughts together, and by then, Nightscream had joined in with the unnecessary stares. He rubbed at the back of his neck cabling and shook his helm. “I don’t know as much as you think I do, but… alright. Yeah, the story to the public isn’t entirely what happened. It’s just the… dressed-up portions of things.”

“No slag.”

“Cool it, pal. I know, I know, it’s… I just know the basics. Very,  _ very  _ basic stuff,” Jetfire said, carefully choosing his words. “I know that Optimus wasn’t found by coincidence; I just know that when his Spark came out of the Well, it was decided that he’d immediately be pushed through the Enforcer Academy. No other training or learning, just what it takes to be a Peace Enforcer. Prowl trained him in law and public service, Landmine and Scavenger trained him in self-defence and detainment. I know that Rodimus and Ultra Magnus always had their optics on him, and the Council had a lot of meetings about him as he went through his training. All of that was held in secret, though--I never sat in on any discussions, but I was in charge of making sure any places he went were cleared by my tech staff. He was sheltered from pretty much everything, which is… why he’s the way he is. Awkward and stiff. And that’s all I knew for the longest time.”

Nightscream frowned, looking between Jetfire and the projected document in front of him as he said, “I don’t understand how any of this is important; following a spark, taking it to train it for a specific role, it sounds mundane. What does it matter if that spark became Prime?”

It was Skywarp who had an answer for that: “Because a spark has a choice. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. When they were harvested from the Well, they’d be taken into what’s essentially a factory to chose what sort of frame they’d become. Sometimes there wouldn’t be a lot of choice, like what  _ you  _ originally got--closer to the start of the war, and right after, when things were drying up, frames were just being built for fighting. Drones on both sides, essentially. TC and I are old enough that we still got a choice, but being split-spark, we both went for similar frames. So, one spark being tracked specifically to train it for one job doesn’t happen. And considering I’m bringing this up here… two of them at once is unheard of.”

Jetfire paused, and his wings visibly stiffened. “Two of them.”

“Yeeee-up. See, before I delved into the juicy stuff, I wanted to see what the Autobots had to say about your dear truck,” explained the purple Seeker. “Thing is, the Autobot Council wasn’t the only one to be looking at him--the Decepticons wanted him too. Let’s see…” He opened another document in the folder that Nightscream had been perusing and read aloud:

> _ “Entry 12: It seems we’ve miscalculated the readings. While the primary spark body still exudes a tremendous amount of energy, Scout Pod 1 has finally produced a clearer image of what we have been studying. The mass is, in fact, two separate sparks, pressed so tightly together that they had appeared as one unit until this discovery. There is no evidence of a split-spark fracture, meaning that these two bodies found each other within the depths of the Well and are traveling together towards the surface. The primary core--a bright yellow spark with whisps of crystalline blue--appears to exude the original energies detected, while the other--a pale green interspersed with streaks of white--orbits protectively around it, but radiates a power so strong that our equipment cannot properly chart it. Our drone retreated after noting a Decepticon scout moving nearby.” _

Cue a puzzled look from Nightscream. “So, both Autobots and Decepticons were watching two sparks leave the Well? And one of them… became Optimus Prime, if I am hearing you right?”

Skywarp nodded; he was enjoying this. “Yep. So, if you ignore the Autobots claiming that Ultra Magnus is his brother, because he’s older than slag, that leaves a second spark without a home… or does it? The Autobots got themselves that pretty golden spark, so where’s the other?”

The more that the purple mech spoke, the more visibly uncomfortable Jetfire became. “Mech, look. If you’re gonna suggest what I think you are, then what does any of this have to do with rewriting the history of the war? Nobody from either council is left alive, as far as I know, so what is changing how it started going to do right now?”

“You’re not that dense, Shuttlebuns--I’ve known you long enough to say that,” the purple Seeker shot back. “I ain’t no religious type, but in the last few vorn I’ve learned plenty about that big ball of light under our pedes; even if it seems stupid, like giving powers to a human, or shooting all of his blood out into space, nothing that guy does is without a purpose. What I’m saying is, well… I  _ hate  _ saying it, but splitting those two up might have done a lot more to put us in this exact situation than any of us knew.”

Nightscream folded his arms. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning, with every last ounce of irony that’s out there, letting Megatron go and kill himself was probably a bad idea if we want to stay alive much longer.”

* * *

**::LOCATION - Cybertron; Central City Command - Command Residence Level**

**::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 17:30 (MST)**

A soft groan echoed from the Prime’s frame as consciousness slowly began to flood his being. It was taking longer than usual for his systems to boot; more than likely, a side effect of whatever it was Red Alert had given him earlier in the cycle. Wait… it  _ was _ still the same cycle, wasn’t it? Golden optics flickered to life in the darkness of his quarters, giving him a quick view of his HUD. Surprisingly enough, it only seemed that he had slept through a majority of the day, though not all of it--perhaps, his weary processors thought, he could try to see if there was still something to be done.

It took another few moments for his processors to fully come online, but once they had, Optimus managed to slowly push himself up from the berth and sit on its edge as he rubbed the exhaustion from his faceplates. That dream… it wouldn’t go away. Two points of light swirling together in the darkness, before being ripped apart and jolting him awake; no matter when it happened, he had always felt a strange sense of loneliness upon awakening, as was the case in this moment. His servo slipped down from his features to rub over his spark chamber, where the strange tugging sensation that he had been feeling in recent times seemed more poignant than it had before his long sleep. 

In retrospect, while he had experienced this dream his entire life, it had only become more prominent in his life after confronting Unicron; and coming to that realization took a bit of uncomfortable self-reflection. Until that fateful night, it had only been an occasional experience, but now, it was entering his mind almost nightly. From what both deities had told him, the connotations made him feel uncomfortable, and just a bit exposed.

He slipped from the berth a few moments later, making his way to his private washracks in an attempt to wake himself up just a bit more quickly. The sudden heat of the solvents was enough to send a jolt of energy through his sensorynet, but he stood there just long enough for the grime accrued down within the tunnels of the planet to be scrubbed away, and for a plan to formulate in his mind. It was getting late, meaning the night shift would be picking up soon--he could sit down and read through his messages from the day before sneaking out to get some fuel, and set to work in his office just as promised. With any luck, no one would ask why he was walking around, and he could feel like he had actually accomplished something during the cycle other than sleeping and having strange dreams.

With his frame freed of dirt and debris, and his processes mostly caught up with his movement speed, he made his way out into the room and settled in a seat in front of his personal terminal; normally he would stand, but the thought of being scolded for straining his struts so soon after waking up was enough to get him to actually try and take care of his frame. He set a servo along the keypad to bring the system online, ready to see just what he had missed during the day, when something caught his attention. In the center of the screen, where he expected to see nothing at all, was a bizarre window he had never encountered before.

Lines of text that seemed mostly gibberish to him preceded one line written out in plain NeoCybex, and its simple words sent a shiver down his spinal struts:  _ ‘It is done, my Son.’ _

“Primus…?”

Once again, he felt that very same phantom tug against his spark. His servo shifted instinctively to grip over his chest plates as his lifeforce pulsed, and pulled back against the sensation. This time, though, it was different: not only had he not been dreaming as the sensation overtook him, but now, there was an odd tone of  _ urgency _ that came through. Something was calling for him.

Someone needed him, and the words left in front of him made the caller quite clear.

“...Alright. I’m coming, Megatron.”

* * *

The laughter that sputtered out from Nightscream was deep and genuine, a sound that surprised both Jetfire and Skywarp alike. Before them the navy and white Seeker leaned forward onto the table, nearly shaking from his fit of hysterics. Jetfire was the first to speak up, and asked, “Uh, Nights…? Are you okay…?”

After a moment, wherein the Seeker slowed his laughter in order to stand, he finally got an answer: “Oh, I am positively LIVING, Jetfire, whereas dear Skywarp seems to have lost all function of his processors. Yes… yes, stopping our dear tyrannical nightmare from flinging himself into the sun would have been a  _ GOOD  _ idea. Why wouldn’t it? Who  _ else  _ would be able to come back and wipe us all from existence if not he who tried to do so  _ millions  _ of times before?”

“You’ve  _ gotta  _ be fraggin’ kidding me…” Skywarp murmured. 

“Truly there is no  _ greater  _ being to save us all from this demise created by Megatron than the idiotic, genocidal fool himself. Skywarp… dear, precious cousin--”

There came a snarl from the purple Seeker’s throat, and his wings flared defensively. “You’ve got three kliks to shut up before I rip out your vocal systems and stuff them down your thrusters, you ghostly freak. You think I like this idea, like, at all? D’you think I’m a fan of his? We’re all heading for the Pits because of his stupid warpath of destruction, but EVERYTHING about these files, and what our  _ apparent  _ creators have spat out in written and recorded documents says that he needs to be alive. Do you know how much I HATE saying that?”

“Guys, guys, c’mon. Nights, really, you need to pull it back here so we can sort this through, okay?” Jetfire asked; his tone was a bit firm, but not meant as condescending. “Can I ask you to do that? Please?”

Nightscream’s sarcastic grin had faded to an expression of annoyance, but looking between the pair of special operations mecha let him know that he was not about to win this argument. He threw up his hands and scoffed. “Fine. But if anyone tries resurrecting him, I’ll be the first to request his spark merely sits in a jar on the table so that he doesn’t decide to kill us all on a whim.”

“Whatever. Anyway… this… the thing is, obviously, neither council seemed to realize just how big of a deal it was that the sparks were together when they were found,” Skywarp continued, his wings still held high and flared as he pulled up a few more documents. “There’s a ton here from a few different scientists on both sides that provided some decent theories, like bonding while they came out or whatever, but like--the third fileset is different. It’s not from either side, it’s… some of it is actual readings OF Primus’ spark, and the Well itself. It’s his  _ own  _ energy recordings.”

Tabbing out from the Project NEXT folder, past the images of Optimus in training and various schematics, he began to dig down into the set titled “ _ AT-Personal _ .” “I had to dig into some of Red Alert’s stuff to figure out how to read Spark signatures--if he asks, well, y’know, who cares--but a lot of these numbers here line up with what was happening when those two sparks came out.” He produced a chart showing what was labeled as energy readings, where the dates lined up with the writings and documents in both Project NEXT and RAMHEAD’s diaries and data logs. “From what it looks like, every time Primus spat out a new spark, there was a tiny uptick in his energy levels--makes sense, if they’re being pulled from his own essence or whatever, but around that time, he was making fewer and fewer of them, and population numbers were getting lower. But on the date that both Councils registered the creation of both sparks, we had this.”

In the center of the graph was the largest bar of them all; its height was nearly six times that of any other, and after that point, there seemed to have been no more produced for nearly a decacycle. Jetfire stared at the numbers, perplexed. “Why did he stuff… so much power into two sparks? Why not just create a bunch of little ones?”

“I’m gonna go back to that theory or whatever that you Autobots recorded Primus talking about: Prime and Megatron are somehow tied to how Primus operates. Maybe they’re recreations of his own spark, or just manifestations of his power? I dunno, religion slag is weird,” Skywarp offered, shrugging a bit. “If there’s a bunch of regular mecha that it’s put into, then you’d probably have more of a chance of a lot of them being swayed one way or another, or deciding they wouldn’t want to help out at all. Free will in bigger numbers can be a powerful deal. But if it’s just two, then there’s a better chance of… keeping balance, holy slag,  _ now  _ I get it. Pits… it’s stupid as slag, but  _ frag _ . Ugh, I hate all of this.”

Jetfire shook his helm and looked at another document in the folder. “What’s this one-- _ Personal Findings _ , what are those?”

Nightscream scoffed. “ _ Clearly _ they’re not someone’s own research.”

“That’s something I’m stuck on,” the purple mech replied, ignoring the biting sarcasm from the other Seeker. “From what I’ve found, way back when, there was somebody positioned within the planet that specifically worked on monitoring Primus himself, and making sure he was happy and healthy. Everything in there is written like some scholar went wild with citations and routines, like it’s all perfectly organized, catalogued, a true librarian-gone-wild kind of deal. It never says  _ who  _ it is, just the letters “AT,” but this guy kept  _ super  _ meticulous records. That whole thing about the two sparks being manifestations of Primus’ power, that’s where I got the idea from--he wrote that in this log, here.”

The file in question seemed to be just one of many, but it was one that stood out in it being written more so like a diary than the rest of the bulleted lists and charts around it.

> _ “I find myself growing more anxious by the cycle; our Light is growing weaker as those above draw on His energies more and more, and He fears losing the ability to protect those that seek to tap Him dry. Through the little communications I have kept with Him, it seems that He is ready to bring his Chosen Light back into existence, but with one caveat: a second will join him, a Protector of the people above, and of the returning Thirteenth Son. Prime and Protector, speaking for and defending the Will of Primus and the people of Cybertron. It has been centuries since I last ventured forth onto the surface, but I fear what Thirteen may encounter, or how he and this Protector may be swayed by the politics held there.”  _
> 
> _ “I must find a way to ensure they are never apart, though He assures me that there is a plan already in motion; I have watched Inspiration speak to Primus at length, and I must assume and have faith in this Disciple’s ability to nurture both until they are ready to turn the tides of Darkness away. Unicron will never be gone from us--we must be prepared. I will pray for Inspiration, for Thirteen, for this new Protector of Light and Shadow, and for those above to do what must be done to restore our Creator’s Light. The Archivist’s work is never done.” _

Jetfire was frozen in place, though his wings had dipped lower than either Seeker had ever seen them move before. In a frail, almost terrified tone, he finally managed to whisper, “...Well I’ll be slagged. Kicker’s not dreaming after all.”

* * *

**::LOCATION - Cybertron; Central City Command - Command Residence Level**

**::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 18:00 (MST)**

Stepping out into the hallway proved a bit difficult as Optimus fought his systems to come online. Every shift of his leg struts felt as though it was a combat exercise, dragging out the deepest parts of his will to power through the battle. He had a plan in this mission, at least--refuel, find someone to back him up, and then head out for a task that, deep within his spark, still felt bizarre to even consider as being a good idea.

Then again, he had tried to do this once before, and spent a year adrift only to return empty-handed. Was accepting the blessing of Primus the key that would finally tip the hand of fate in his favor?

His trip towards the refueling station was, fortunately, a short one; he hobbled past quiet command barracks, only hearing a bit of murmuring coming from behind Jetfire’s door, put paid it all no mind. The synthetic energon that awaited him beyond the other empty rooms was warm and comforting, despite its bland, almost stale-seeming state, and allowed him to pull his processes together as he formulated his plan further. Optimus had already called for someone to meet him outside--the only way he was going to reach his destination was with some additional air support, given that he couldn’t quite get off the planet’s surface without it. While a bit of a curious spark, the mech was good at following orders, and likely wouldn’t ask too many questions.

At least, that was the hope.

Though he kept to himself as he made his way out and towards the surface level of the base, it was difficult to ignore the curious stares that came his way as the Prime pushed forward. What had they been told about his absence during the day? Was that concern in their features, or was something else wrong? No, no, he told himself, that was ridiculous; it had only been a singular cycle, and if something terrible had gone on, it would have been the first thing that Optimus saw when he awoke--not a message from his Creator. Moving carefully, though now with a bit more energy from his refuelling, he nodded to the soldiers that he passed while heading towards the entrance. No one seemed to wish to stop him, though he knew word would eventually get back to Red Alert that his patient was escaping.

Surprisingly, his trip to the spaceport was uneventful: not a single spark stopped to inquire as to why he was out and about, or what he was thinking as he passed by the few intact ships in the yard as he approached a lone mech standing out on a launchpad. So far, so good. “Wing Saber--I’m sorry for calling you out on such short notice,” Optimus said, noting to himself that he sounded far more tired than anticipated. “Are you doing well?”

“Well enough, sir--but I’m wondering if you’re alright to be out here. I mean… n-not to call you weak, it’s just that… I thought you were resting.” Approaching cautiously, Wing Saber looked his commander up and down before adding, “But if you really want to check something out, I’m ready and willing to get you in the air. Er… well, open void space, anyway. What’s waiting for us out there?”

The Prime tried not to hesitate: “It’s more some _ one _ , actually. I just received word that an old acquaintance needs a pickup, and it’s best we get it done without much publicity. Are you alright with someone hitching a ride?”

“No problem with that. Who’s the pal, if you don’t mind me asking?” Wing Saber rolled his shoulder, getting ready to link up, but there was quite the curious tilt to his helm. 

“For now, I’ll say you’ll know them when you see them,” Optimus replied. “I don’t know what state they’ll be in, however, so I’d rather get going as soon as possible. Let’s fly.”

While it likely sounded suspicious, it was a relief when the Guardsman didn’t press for any additional information; Wing Saber knew when to ask questions, and when to get the job done. The two combined without another word, and Optimus found himself feeling quite lively as their energy pooled together--it would be just enough to get the job done, so long as there were no real snags.

But with their current target in mind, there was always something bound to go wrong. History had proved that fact time and time again.

Optimus looked out towards the energon sun before taking flight, feeling that familiar pull in his spark grow just a tad bit stronger in return. That tugging would be his compass as they drifted through the debris field that orbited Cybertron, a massive wall of fallen ships and chunks of Unicronian armor that acted as a barrier from whatever mysteries lay dormant out in the depths of the Tear. None of those unseen horrors were present in the Prime’s mind then, however--he only cared about a distant speck of white that glinted in the distance, beckoning him ever closer.

_ ‘I’m almost there; don’t you dare make me regret this.’ _

* * *

**::LOCATION - Cybertron; Central City Command - Command Residence Level**

**::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 18:15 (MST)**

Nightscream seemed almost annoyed by Jetfire’s response, and shook his helm in an attempt to dismiss it all. “I still don’t see how any of this is supposed to change anything. Both councils lied, now they are all dead and gone or scattered to the stars, Megatron is dead, and Optimus Prime is all that remains. What does it matter if the beginning of conflict is different from what we were all driven to believe, when the fighting has ceased and we’re all trying to survive?”

“It ain’t that simple,” Skywarp said, though his posture had changed slightly. The Seeker appeared a bit more tired and annoyed rather than outright angry with his cousin. “It means we might be fragged because Megatron’s dead. It means Prime’s got some wild thing with his spark that’s apparently tying him to the Thirteen that might make him go ballistic since we don’t know what it is. All of them had weird powers, if you believe legends, so if he doesn’t know he has one and it’s been kept from him, all this slag with the planet dying and having to keep Unicron alive might set him off. Who knows--just another dumb theory. But it also means that ol’ Grandpa Hot-Head might have more information that Primus gave him that he’s keeping from the rest of him--this AT guy says so himself, they talked at length before this all happened. What it changes is... Shuttle, help me out. ‘M losin’ my slaggin’ processors over here.”

After shaking his helm, Jetfire spoke up: “It means we were all playing a game that never had to happen, and the only thing that might clean up this mess is a guy who wiped out the ones who twisted him and then spent the last ten million years burning the universe down out of spite. A guy who’s… well, who Kicker and you watched fly into that big ball of super energon. Yeesh… there’s a lot to unpack, here.”

“And I hate all of it,” replied Skywarp. “I’m still reading everything, but… yeah. Sounds like we need to corner Rodimus and see what he really knows, and use all this to figure out what the next steps are. Like, y’know,  _ maybe  _ telling Optimus Prime. ...Not gonna volunteer for that one personally, though. You interested in being the messenger, Nightscream?”

“Hardly. Hmm… perhaps you’re both thinking about this in the wrong light, though,” the other Seeker posed. The two stared at him a moment, clearly confused, before he seemed collected enough to continue: “If anything, this might begin the age of Cybertron without Primes. If Primus and Unicron are too weak to continue, then why not pick up our pieces and rebuild elsewhere? There are colonies that have done as much, so with this destruction put behind us, we can all start again. The great Primus’ plans failed, so we craft our own.”

Jetfire sighed. “Nightscream... that’s… I mean, yeah, that’s a possibility, but you HAVE seen that big hole in the universe, right? Even if we do leave, that thing isn’t stable. It’ll collapse, and everything that everyone’s been studying so far says it could end up doing irreversible damage not just to everything trapped in here, but outside as well.”

“Something will be found eventually,” Nightscream said, undeterred, “but without substantial evidence to the contrary, other than some old diary, you will not find me jumping aboard the ‘ _ Only faith will save us _ ’ ship any time soon.

Glancing from Nightscream back to Jetfire, Skywarp grunted and shook his helm, then began pulling his few datapads together. “Why are you keepin’ this creep in here again? Ugh… yeah, I’m… I’ll keep reading through this stuff, see if maybe it’s just all hype or whatever, and figure out a next move before pinning down Mr. Inspiration. I’d rather not try to go to bed wondering if we can bring back the dead to try and keep the rest of us alive.”

“Yeah, we gotta save this for tomorrow, at best. Thanks for your help, Skywarp--I really appreciate it,” said Jetfire, who gave the Seeker a pat on the shoulder before stepping back. “I trust that I can leave you two alone for a few kliks while I step next door, right? Gotta check on the big guy before I officially clock out.”

“No promises, but I’ll try to keep my knives out of his vocalizer,” Skywarp mused, flashing a smirk. “I’m gonna head on down to the refueling hall for a quick cube of fake-grade after this, if you wanna join me and the nerd squad.”

Jetfire paused; he probably meant Thundercracker and Scattorshot. “I’ll think about it. If I don’t show, have a good night, and don’t think about all that stuff too much. We’ll… we’ll figure something out. Just get some rest.” He gave the pair a wave, watching as Nightscream picked up one of the datapads to read through it while the other finished packing the rest away, before ducking out into the hall. 

“You seem to be getting along well with the Autobots,” Nightscream spoke, not looking up from the screen. “Was this always your plan?”

It wasn’t a question that Skywarp had been expecting, clearly catching him off-guard as he paused and looked up at the other Seeker. “What? No, of course not. I mean… it ain’t hard, especially when I’ve got work to do. Even before I got my servos bloodied, I didn’t exactly have problems with any of ‘em--just wanted to be left alone and had something for myself. Some of ‘em can get a bit smug, actin’ like they won, but it ain’t hard to deal with. What, you interested in finally comin’ out of the shadows?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You--you just said you’ve been hiding in here and around the base for who knows how long to avoid conflict,” countered Skywarp, though his tone was more exhausted than anything. “Nobody’s gonna kill you, or anything. If guys like me can walk free without an armed guard makin’ sure we don’t flip and start taking sparks, you sure as slag won’t be locked up. Why hide?”

Nightscream glowered at the purple mech for a moment, his wings bolting upright in warning as though he might lash out. Yet before he could speak again, the berthroom door slid open and revealed a worried-looking Jetfire. “You’re back already--”

“Slaggin’... why can’t you just sit STILL?” came a frustrated growl from the shuttle, who bolted towards his personal terminal before bringing it online. “Security, override code SkyShadow--what is Optimus Prime’s current location?”

The pair of Seekers looked to one another curiously before the system replied, bringing up a blank map of the planet. Cybertron’s surface hadn’t been updated in the images, still showing it as a whole unit rather than its current fractured shell, but that did not seem to matter to the security protocols. A line began to form, leading from the second level of the planet up to the first, and towards the spaceport before vanishing in mid-air. Three sets of coordinates appeared as the line traversed: one beside the Prime’s private quarters, a second for the refueling nearby, clearly places where he had spent more than a few breems, before the final one at the upper docks itself, unmoving. 

Jetfire’s fist clenched over the input array before moving back towards the door, blind to the pair of fliers staring in bewilderment as he stormed away. “You are  _ not  _ doing this soul-searching slag again, Optronix. Not on my watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the culmination of years of learning and research in regards to the origins of Optimus and Megatron. Though the involvement of some in their story--particularly Rodimus and Jetfire--isn't explicitly stated anywhere in the open, and are being put in for the sake of storytelling, numerous people were involved throughout the years in helping to dig through old Japanese blog posts and creator interviews, toy bios, and even vague sentences from trashed story ideas and Ask Vector Prime for information on our favorite band of machines. The Unicron Trilogy is spread everywhere across the internet, hidden in the strangest of places, but the one point that came back time and time again was how tightly bound together those two leaders were from before they were able to think their first thoughts. Hell, even Primus and Unicron spoke about it in both sub and dub, so. Y'know. Anyway, none of this would have been possible without the dedication that friends both present and past have and had to pulling things together for us to all sob over in the middle of the night, or laugh about whenever possible. I'm thankful to all of you and the inspiration you've driven, no matter where you are.


	6. Those Things we Cannot Leave Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With an audience waiting to be captivated, and the promises of great fortunes to be made on all sides, there is finally a chance to slip into the depths and uncover what is being left unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very, very mild warning for mention of disembodied (robot) limbs.

**::LOCATION - Earth; [UNKNOWN], Iowa**

**::TIME - 16:30 (MST)**

Although it had taken several hours to set his plan into motion, Kicker finally felt that he was beginning to see some results. In the bushes just past the garage he had stashed away a heavy-duty backpack with a number of things he thought might be useful, should things go too far downhill that night: a few changes of clothes, a small Netbook, batteries, a flashlight, and a decent wad of cash were among its contents, and he reasoned that it would be enough for the short-term. While squirreling these items away, along with a pair of hiking boots and a heavy jacket, he had also managed to corner each of the Minicons individually while they cooked and cleaned to discuss their role in things.

“I don’t care what dad says,” he cautioned, “if I come up to the loft tonight and say it’s time to go, then we’ve gotta bolt. Alright?” He knew none of them had any reason to doubt his father’s actions; for the most part, Brian was quite courteous, and allowed the trio complete freedom around the house and property. Why would they be in danger? Despite this loyalty and comfort, much to his relief, each Minicon gave their own set of beeps and whirls in agreement.

No matter what happened beneath the Jones residence, he wasn’t going to leave them behind.

With a plate of food that had been forced into his grasp by one very persistent Highwire, Kicker sat quietly in his room and waited. What exactly it was that he waited for, however, was still unknown; the guests would likely arrive and be swept inside by his father, and shown around the first floor as though it were a glistening art gallery. The space had been transformed throughout the day, with the Street Team putting away the family’s cozy and welcoming decor in exchange for bizarre modern art, paintings and prints of glistening, futuristic cities, and cushions that had been emblazoned with the strange emblem that had been on the side of that delivery van. Once seated for dinner his father would continue to boast and brag as they feasted upon the roast that Grindor had lovingly cooked for them, with place mats and napkins embroidered to match the pillows in the other room. This would likely be where he showed off whatever it was he wanted to sell to these people, and the only chance that Kicker would have to sneak downstairs. 

From his bedroom window, he had a clear, open view of the driveway and woods in front of their property. It was a long, winding path that had only recently been paved and set with flagstones, a rustic touch that his mother had wanted in front of the clean and comfortable home that they had lovingly been remodeling. Despite this new addition, one could still hear a vehicle approaching from behind closed windows, and that would be his signal to listen hard to what was happening down on the first floor. For the moment, all he could hear was a bit of soft classical music rising up through the floorboards, which was strange--that was more of his mother’s preferred listening, whereas his father tended to drift more towards rock bands that should have retired at least a decade previously. Probably just for show, he thought.

As he watched for any signs of life outside, once more he began to mentally sift through his plan of attack for the evening. It was going to be difficult, no matter what he tried, but if luck was on his side, he reasoned, things might be okay. He had to get down from his room to the basement door, first of all--so long as no one was watching the stairs from the dining area, that wouldn’t be much of an issue. They angled down from the second floor and into the living room, where he could crouch down and slip into the hall underneath them that led to the laundry room, garage, den, bathroom, and basement door. Second, he would need to hope that the door to his father’s lab was unlocked. Since he needed to show off, more than likely, that wouldn’t be an issue--just in case, however, he had managed to snag a set of spare keys from his parents’ bedroom, and reasoned that at least one of them might help.

From there, he would have to figure out what was behind the three locked doors; he wouldn’t be able to fully explore, but he hoped that his head might, quite literally, point him in the right direction. Thinking as logically as he could, one room was likely just for storage, and the other two for experiments, testing, and building. Video game knowledge--and memories of most of the Autobot command centers--told him that a storage room was probably tucked back at the end of the hall, and the two doors that had been on the right were likely where all of the actual work happened. They had been keypad locks, if he recalled properly; or electronic in some manner, at the very least. Not ideal, but still, he had a few options in mind for how to deal with that sort of problem.

Oddly enough, none of those ideas involved him kicking in the doors.

It was fifteen minutes later that the first car pulled up the driveway: a limousine of some kind, painted a pearlescent white that made him feel sick to his stomach. How garish and unnecessary, he thought; the four men who stepped out from it almost seemed to match their vehicle as well, with clean white suits and what he thought were pink-ish ties. Two more large vehicles pulled up behind it a moment later, one of which reminded him of the delivery van, but with enough windows that it didn’t leave him feeling as though it would leave a package by the front door. In all, he counted twelve men in pressed suits that flooded out and towards the house--a number far higher than he had expected. Just before he pulled away, however, he noticed one other among them that had not stood out immediately: a woman in a soft purple jacket, one that seemed far too heavy for the warm summer evening, with a matching hat and cane. She paused behind the crowd of men, glancing around at the exterior of the house, before her head craned up to stare at the second floor.

Directly into his own gaze.

Kicker felt a chill run down his spine as he lurched back and towards the bed; had she actually been looking at him, or was he imagining it? After all, he was only peering out from behind the curtain, not showing enough of himself to really be noticed by anyone not looking closely. Even with that thought in mind, it unnerved him. Why did all women seem to have that powerful, knowing gaze right when his guard was at its lowest? His mom would tease and say it was a super power, and really, he had to agree.

Shaking the shivers away, he sat down on the bed and closed his eyes, focusing everything in him on what he could hear drifting up from the first floor. The music had softened considerably, and was replaced by the loud, confident tones of his father’s typical greetings and bragging. So, they were inside; that likely meant fifteen to twenty minutes for a short tour and general chatter before they all sat down to eat. 

Leaving him just a quarter of an hour to pull himself together before he would get his first chance at finding… whatever it was that lurked in the basement.

With the device from Jetfire in his hand, he flipped it over in his grasp a few times, almost nervous as the feeling of delicate glass and metal fumbled in his fingertips; what if the things he found down there weren’t as nefarious as his gut was trying to make him believe? What if it really  _ was  _ something as simple as a few “endless energy” power drills and tablets? Sure, raw energon ore was clearly coming from somewhere, a place where the beings who needed it to sustain and grow new life couldn’t access it, but what if that really was it?

Was going down and breaking into his father’s private research spaces really the right move to make here?

He checked his personal phone one last time as the butterflies fluttered in his stomach, almost hoping to see some sign from the universe that he should simply stay put and ignore his impulses, and instead merely saw a few missed text messages: one from his sister that included a picture her friend had taken of her shoving a rolled-up slice of pizza in her mouth--hilarious, honestly--one from his boss, Tegan, asking if he was doing well, and a singular question from his mother, sent only ten minutes ago.  _ ‘Rest up tonight. Order pizza, use my card. Someone will be by tomorrow to take you and the Triplets on a much-needed vacation.’ _

  
There came that shiver again, snaking straight down his spine and sending him to nearly curl inward. Despite the clear message in front of him, he knew there were other words hidden within her phrasing: use her card so she knows you’re actually feeding yourself, don’t go downstairs and risk a fight with your father, or risk hurting yourself. As for the vacation, Kicker felt almost uncomfortable reading that--she didn’t want him or the Street Team around for whatever was to come the next day. Perhaps she was coming home and was going to talk to his father, or she feared that he would have even more people over for something else; another possibility, one he didn’t want to consider in that moment, was that she was scared. 

Miranda Jones was a cautious, clever woman: always thinking a few steps ahead, she tried to keep all of her options open just in case something new and unexpected wished to slip its way through her carefully-crafted web of safeguards and pre-planned moves. The idea that Brian had gone out of his way to keep his projects secret was far from surprising, but waiting until the home was mostly empty to begin making such extravagant plays of his own might not have stood out much without the knowledge that energon was somehow involved. She was afraid for her children, and for the Minicons, that much was certain, but what of her husband? What was she seeing now that Kicker could not?

He replied to each message in turn, telling his sister that she should try two slices next, then his bosses that he was feeling better and would be heading to bed early, but would let them know if he needed them. When it came to his mother, however, he couldn’t help but pause before typing out his response; how quickly would she pick up on his lies?

_ ‘Ok, I will. HW made a big lunch so I’m not hungry yet. Should I have a bag ready for tomorrow tho?’ _

Not that he didn’t already have that done, but still, perhaps this was a good backup plan to his own. More than likely he would be whisked away to wherever it was his mother was staying for work, or somewhere else that the government had sanctioned as safe for three alien robots and their human-bloodhound friend. If she had transport set up, it was definitely going to be much more secure than his own idea, but that was only if things went  _ well _ tonight.

Despite her message, he knew that it was up to him to try and find  _ some _ kind of answer before his father stashed it all away again.

After receiving a  _ ‘Yes, pack what you think you’ll need for a few days, love you,’ _ reply a few moments later, a different sort of music began drifting up to the second floor: it wasn’t classical, but it was soft and lighthearted, something that one would usually compare to what a stuffy rich person would have playing in the background of their dinner party scene in a big-budget movie. They were probably starting dinner, which meant it was show time for him.

Moving as quietly as he could, he glanced out the window one last time to ensure that the coast was clear, noting a catering van parked out front that hadn’t been there earlier, before grabbing Jetfire’s sleuthing phone and slipping into the hallway. It was dark on the second floor, but with his door now open he was nearly knocked back by the volume of the music and conversation from the dining room. Clearly, these money-throwing old men knew how to have a good time--or, at least, how to pretend that they were for a free meal and a show.

With as much grace as he could muster, Kicker crept towards the stairs and began to slink down, forever thankful that the dining area was on the other side of the first floor, and that with all of the excitement, it was likely that no one would notice him hunched over and moving in the shadows. One step at a time, he thought; it wasn’t as quick as his heart was urging him to go, but he moved quickly enough that anyone who might glance over probably wouldn’t give a second glance. It took about thirty seconds to get to the bottom, in which time someone popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, adding to the cacophony of sounds with a round of applause and laughter from the crowd. 

Not a single soul noticed the teenager slipping into the darkened hall beside the kitchen, just as he had hoped. But here, he knew, came the first great challenge of the night: the basement door.

The first key on the ring of spares didn’t fit, and neither did the second; the third one slid in, but didn’t budge, which made the sweat begin rolling down his face. He was getting nervous, too nervous--what if he broke it off in the lock by trying to turn it too harshly? He removed it and tried the fourth, which gave him the same result. Drat, he thought, huffing slightly in annoyance. Was this not going to work? Why hadn’t he spent more time that day looking for a key? In a fit of growing unease, he grabbed the doorknob and decided, for some reason, to simply try and turn it.

Much to his shock, it turned, and the door pulled open in front of him. 

Why hadn’t he tried that first?

Pushing the thought out of mind, he moved through the gap and pulled the door closed behind him, choosing to lock it from the inside. He had to work quickly, and if he could give himself a head-start by throwing off Brian’s groove with a locked door, then perhaps he could buy himself a few extra minutes of spelunking. Kicker felt more confident in making a bit of noise as he quickly went down the stairs, ignoring the open door to the display room to instead work on the one across from it. He pulled up the decryption application on the phone and read through the instructions quickly: if it was an electronic lock, simply hold up the phone to it and press Start on the screen. Swallowing hard, he did as directed, and within just a few seconds, he watched the light on the number pad flash from red to green. 

For the first time, he decided to actually glance at the plaque on the wall beside the room before standing to enter: “Storage.” Well, that went against everything that the movies and video games had taught him, unfortunately. What  _ was _ fortunate, however, was that the space would likely be what lined up with the outside-access elevator in the backyard--that meant whatever was put down there that day might still be around, as well as anything else that might need to be sent out. Carefully, he pulled down on the handle and pushed his way inside.

Despite what he had initially thought of the floor-plan of the house, the storage-and-receiving area of the basement was far larger than he had been expecting--twelve feet tall, at the very least, and likely twenty-five feet long and wide. Three steps took him down onto the floor, which was a smooth, glossy sort of concrete, but still somehow gave his worn-down sneakers plenty of traction. Along the wall to his right were a number of built-in shelves packed with small packages and boxes, and around them were several shipping crates of various sizes; some of them--most of which were metal--bared the brand of what he now assumed was his father’s new company, while others were standard wooden boxes that had all been nailed shut. Cautiously, Kicker approached the nearest one with the strange logo on it, eyeing the container as though it might explode if he touched it wrong. It didn’t appear to be rigged with anything on the outside, which helped to set his mind at ease; why would his father booby-trap something in their own home?

Regardless, he didn’t want to take any chances before he tried something ridiculous--the worst outcome here would somehow be tripping a silent alarm to let Brian know that he had been sneaking around where he didn’t belong. Just to be sure, before trying anything else, he pulled out the phone once again and ran the lock cracking application. After a few seconds, there was no response from it; no electronic locks found. Odd, but not unwelcome. Breathing a sigh of relief, Kicker put the device back in his pocket and stared at the logo for a moment, thinking; he had to do this. He had to know. Everyone needed to know. With just as much caution as one might approach a feral, frothing wildebeest, he reached out and placed his open palm to the crate and closed his eyes.

Nothing. Not a prickling feeling on the back of his neck, no sensation of his hair free-floating, nor the warmth of Primus coursing through him as he opened his eyes again, blinking. It was just a box. 

But how many of these could be the same?

The rest of the room seemed to mostly consist of shipping supplies, a few dolly carts, a palette jack, and a small forklift, but nothing that screamed alien technology. He noted the elevator’s keypad as he moved about the space, and that it appeared to be in the lowered position. When had it even been installed? Actually, when had this place been built? Was it while they were still working with the Autobots, or after?

And why was he only asking these questions to himself now?

The final wall didn’t actually seem to be a wall at all: in fact, he could see a handle on either side of a split in the center, implying that it likely slid open in some way. There was no way that he was strong enough to pull it by himself, though; even if he was, Kicker thought, the sound was definitely not going to be something that went unnoticed upstairs.

...Or would it? 

Given its position, it was reasonable to consider that one of the doors down the hall would give hi access to the other side, anyway. There was no need to try and draw attention to himself just yet. With that in mind, he crept back out into the hall, closing the door behind him, before setting off to the two that he hadn’t inspected just yet. On the left side was a door whose plaque read “Development,” while the one on his right bore the title of “Research.” Weren’t those the same thing? Shaking his head, Kicker decided to try the room on the right, first. Its lock opened just as easily as the storage room had mere moments before, however, this one did not have steps leading down to a concrete floor. The tiles beneath his feet felt rubberized, or at least like some sort of semi-springy, likely-non-conductive surface, and did well to muffle his movements.

And also quite unlike the storage room, this space much more resembled a strange cross between an Omnicon testing room and the bizarre world that was once Carlos’ jumbled corner of the Mars City data center. The center of the space was packed with different work benches and tables that each contained its own little project; the myriad chipsets, screws, and odd computer components that littered each surface were all labeled individually, whether crammed in a tiny tote or strewn around in a seemingly careless way; the empty shells of various power tools sat by like open sarcophagi, awaiting whatever chunks of technology and energon would be stuffed in them, though pictures of each as a final product were set neatly nearby, which struck Kicker as rather strange. Was this room a place that his father intended to show off to the shark tank that circled above, or had he another audience in mind? 

Perhaps this had all been set up with the intention of pulling Kicker in for his assistance. Fat chance at that, he silently huffed.

Unsurprisingly, there was not a single speck of raw energon left out for prying eyes to behold. He dragged his hands carefully across the closed cabinets along all sides of the room, concentrating hard as though his soul was calling out to it in the dark, but to no avail; there were no Radioactive Material signs hanging around, no crackling sensations in the air, not even a bit of dust that would indicate the alien substance had ever been present. Just another sign, in Kicker’s mind, that something about this was off, and it was all for show.

With his curiosity far from satisfied, he closed the door behind him and faced the final chamber: “Research.” To his surprise there were two locks on this particular room, but they were no match for the foresight of a trained special operations maestro’s mind--Jetfire’s application cut through their defenses as though it was adding One plus One, allowing him entrance into a room that made him tense almost as soon as he peered inside.

Unlike the spaces before, this one was dark; incredibly so. The sensation was almost oppressive, reminding him somewhat of how it felt to walk around within Unicron’s shell. Actually, no; even  _ that  _ place had been lit, albeit in a rather sinister glow of green energon and pure, unadulterated spite. Kicker flicked on the device’s flashlight, but after taking the three steps down and inside, he realized he might not need it for his immediate surroundings. The hair on his head flashed upward, standing on-end as it bathed his head and shoulders in a familiar golden glow; though it helped to ease some of his anxieties, it only made others brew up further in his gut. Such a reaction meant that there was far more energon in this room than he had even thought before.

Why was he only just feeling this now? What was it about this room that shielded him from the effects of it upstairs? Lead? It had to be lead, right? 

Swinging the flashlight slowly around the room helped to illuminate the rest of the space, but almost immediately, he regretted the decision: every surface appeared to be medical-grade steel, or something like it, and upon each tabletop, and every counter, was something that he recognized in one way or another. Pieces of greyed, decaying Cybertronian armor; part of the tail of a felinoid Terrorcon, and the bisected helm of a raptor-like Terrorcon; a broken radar dish from an Omnicon’s arm, and so many other little components that he began to feel dizzy.

It was no wonder the place felt so ominous--it was practically a graveyard.

Something else caught his attention as Kicker tried desperately to keep his dinner down, up against the far wall beneath a heavy, silverish tarp. Standing a good six or seven feet tall, it was almost just as wide, if not more so. Cables fed from what he thought was a server rack to whatever was under the fabric, glowing a very dull, tired red light until they disappeared beneath it. His heart sank, and almost immediately, he felt like running.

Something… was something  _ alive  _ under there? His feet were frozen in place, but his will to make a break for it screamed desperately through his mind. After what felt like an eternity, he took a careful step forward, then two more. His hands were shaking, even as they held the phone aloft, and began to feel clammy and slick with sweat when he reached forward and took hold of the cover.

One… two… three.

Carefully, as though he might be taking a bandage off of a wound that wasn’t quite ready to air out just yet, he began to lift it, and stumbled backward with a sharp gasp almost immediately. He had only revealed the bottom portion of it, but he knew that purple armor, that glinting green optic’s sickening glow.

Locked in the depths of their basement, beneath feet of concrete and lead-lined floors and walls, Shockblast’s severed helm stared back at him through the bitter darkness.

Kicker chose that moment to make his leave. He pulled the door shut behind him and clamored back up the stairs, not caring how much noise he made anymore, and unlocked his path up to the first floor without once looking back down into the depths from whence he came. It didn’t even register in his mind that the music and jubilant energy from the dining room was still ongoing until he heard footsteps approach. He had pushed himself against the far wall, sitting directly across from the basement entrance, and felt himself struggling for air when he finally looked up. Standing just a few paces away was the woman he had seen from his window, staring at him quite curiously. 

She had since removed her coat, and wore a very neatly-pressed, soft pink summer dress with a sort of cape over-top, the color of which seemed a few shades lighter than her dark brown hair. Kicker coughed a couple of times in an attempt to catch his breath before looking back up at the woman, but nearly did a double-take as he looked into her eyes. 

He had felt such a gaze before--piercing and curious, speaking something to him that he couldn’t quite understand, but was still drawn to in some way. “U-uh… I’m, uh…”

“Are you alright, dear?” Such a soft tone almost reminded him of his mother, but even in his strange state of feeling both revolted and terrified, his mind and heart knew that something was off about the response.

He nodded. “Yeah… just, uh… feeling a bit winded. Hard day, heh.”

“You must be… Kicker, yes? Your father mentioned that you were a bit under the weather and wouldn’t be joining the party,” she replied.

“He… talked about me?” Again, he tried taking a deep breath, but this time he coupled it with the motion of trying to stand to his full height--a not-so-imposing five-foot-seven. He had to get out of there, and fast. 

The woman seemed to smile as she watched him stand. “Yes, he did; we were quite excited to meet you after all he’s said of your achievements and hard work in the company. Goodness though, where are my manners--I am Aphrodite, CEO and Founder of Legion Technologies.” Finally, she held out her hand--not to help him up, per se, but likely to shake his. “I do hope I am not… interrupting your evening and rest?”

For a few seconds longer than he likely should have, Kicker stared at the outstretched hand, somewhat bewildered, before taking it to awkwardly shake back. Her grip was firm, almost imposing; it made him stand upright almost at once. “Um… n-no, it’s okay, ma’am. I just needed something down here and got… kinda winded… d-did you need something…?”

Something in her gaze seemed questioning; some deep part of his soul that had always tried lying to his mother told him that this woman didn’t believe a single word out of his mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel entirely guilty about it. What did he have to gain from this, other than, possibly, a few seconds to possibly get away? 

“Yes, actually… I was actually looking for the restroom,” she explained, deciding to brush off her clear suspicions. “I don’t suppose you could point me in the right direction…?”

“What? Oh, uh--yeah, sure. It’s the second door on the right,” he explained quickly, pointing further down the hall. Was that really all?”

She smiled joyfully. “Thank you, dear--I was worried I might get lost in here. It is such a lovely home, but you know the old saying about wandering alone when in need, yes? Haha.”

In fact, he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. “T-thanks… we’ve been working hard on making it nice.” 

“And what a lovely job you all have done,” she replied. “Now, before you head off to rest, was there anything you wished to ask me?”

Kicker found himself staring at her blankly for a moment; this was a complete stranger, as far as he knew. Despite not knowing anyone at all in his father’s circle of friends, investors, whatever they were, why would any of them think that he would have questions for them? Did his father suggest that he might? Even then, why would they want to hear what he had to say when they had--theoretically--more important things to attend to? Eventually, he attempted to look as meek as possible, and replied by saying, “I think just… a request? Please don’t tell my dad I’m down here right now… h-he thinks I’m resting, a-and I just… needed to grab something, but didn’t want to be a bother…”

“Why of course,” said Aphrodite, who seemed only slightly disappointed that he didn’t ask for her biography. “However, a request does come with a cost, if that’s alright with you.”

Of course a rich person would ask him to pay up. “S-sure, I guess… what is it?”

Something changed in the air, then; a chill seemed to nip at the back of his neck, almost as though a draft had chosen that moment to make itself known, or something  _ else  _ wanted his attention. The woman’s gaze seemed to reflect that notion, though her smile remained as she said, “Do not push yourself too hard, young man. The universe has a plan, and you’re only human; it’s not yours to understand. Just believe in what you’re told. Can you do that for me?”

It was as though all the blood drained from his body, turning instead to rivers of ice beneath his skin as he stared into the deep, almost spectral eyes of the woman before him. While not a direct command, per se, it was a bizarre enough request that it made him feel as though she really  _ was  _ demanding that he stay in line. Yet before he could speak his agreement, her expression changed: the stern features that studied him mere seconds before melted away to amusement, and she stood upright a bit more before letting out a soft, melodic laugh. It was genuine, he felt, but it did not help to set him at ease. “Um… y-yes, ma’am. I’ll uh. Do that.”

“Don’t worry yourself, dear,” she said, smiling warmly, “I’m merely teasing. It was something in a song I listened to earlier, so it was still on my mind. Even so, your secret is safe with me; just ensure you’re well-rested, and your father will be none the wiser. Still… should you need anything, here--this might be of some use to you, I think.” She slipped a hand into an unseen pocket on her dress, and produced a thin metal box; from within, she plucked a single business card and slipped it into his hand before moving down the hall where he had directed her prior.

Without thinking too much on the matter, he slipped the card into his pocket and shook his head, trying to regain focus. It was an odd way to top off finding the head of someone who had tried to kill far too many of his friends over the centuries just sitting in the basement, though it was not bizarre enough to make him feel any better. In fact, it only reminded him of just how exhausted he was. Somehow, the drive to run and never stop had been drained from him in a matter of moments; all he wanted now was lie down.

Instinct led him down the dark hall and towards the door to the garage, which easily gave way to his zombie-like motions of staggering and pushing his way along. He moved silently in front of his father’s pair of expensive cars and up the stairs to the loft, making no sounds until he knocked and made his way inside the private space. Sitting nearest the door was Sureshock, who jumped to her pedes as soon as he entered, seemingly aware that something was off with their human friend. She beeped something at Grindor before leading Kicker towards their nest in the corner, and helped him to lie down before pulling a blanket from the nearby Highwire’s grasp to drape over the teen. 

This was where he needed to be. Safe, secure, and surrounded by those he loved. The pile of cushions and comforters they had pulled together was warm, cradling his exhausted form even as the trio piled in alongside him, giving whirls and chirps of concern in chorus. “Guys, I’m… I just… I need a nap…”

No further arguments were made, and for that, he was thankful. There was no one who would come looking for him here, nor drag him away from the comfort and warmth of the Minicons’ little frames; they needed him, now more than ever. Kicker didn’t want to consider what would happen if he left them alone with his father, and not just because he was too tired to focus on the frightening thoughts that clawed at his psyche. He would wait until the morning, where he was prepared to do whatever it took to drag them out with him when his mother’s escape plan went into action.

It was all he could do to be a Guardian to anyone.

* * *

**::LOCATION - Earth; [UNKNOWN], Iowa**

**::TIME - 21:30 (MST)**

The summer skies were clear that night, allowing for the true, open beauty of the Milky Way to bathe the grounds of the Jones Family home in a blanket of stars and moonlight. Only one soul stared up into the cosmos as the crowd of investors cleared, almost all of whom were still chatting joyfully as they shook hands with Brian himself. Thanks were passed between himself and the men who filed back to their waiting vehicles, until the only one who remained was Aphrodite herself. “Such a lovely view you have, Doctor,” she said, gaze fixed on the sight above. “One of many fine reasons to begin your research so far from the city.”

“But of course,” Brian agreed, chuckling to himself, “space has always been one of my greatest drives and inspirations. You can only do so much from a public lab.”

“I could see that from your videos. You have quite the creative mind, I must say.” She turned to face him, smiling curiously as though she were studying him. “Those starship designs alone were captivating; if it hadn’t been for Mr. Simons’ comment about your NASA partnership, I might have thought they were pulled straight from a science-fiction movie.”

Whether she was stroking his ego or not, Brian couldn’t tell, but he was far from the point of caring too much about boasting and bragging; they were here for a show, and it was still going on. “You’re far too kind, Ms. Maximos. With any luck those hover boards and bikes will be sailing across the roads in the very near future, paving the way for grand ships to take us far beyond this world and to whatever awaits us.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And what do you believe that might be, Doctor?”

“Well, the possibilities are endless,” he explained. “Natural resources that could propel us even further into a more ecologically-minded future, uncharted worlds merely waiting for a passionate population to spread out and make them a home, and… well, ideas beyond our current understandings, even. Someone needs to find them, so why not start by looking ourselves?”

The answer seemed to please her to some degree. “Hmm… yes, I see that. Ambition is a powerful tool--the chaotic balance of positivity and the unknown woven together to form the fabric of the future. I quite enjoy that energy. Thank you again for sharing your work with us tonight, Doctor Jones.”

“Please, call me Brian,” came his far-from-humble response. “And my endless thanks to you and your associates for joining us here tonight; I was afraid you all wouldn’t make it.”

“The pleasure is mine, I assure you. We wouldn’t have missed this for anything,” Aphrodite said. Her smile seemed to glow just a bit brighter under the stars, and she reached out to shake his awaiting hand. “You’ll hear from us again very soon, I think. Just keep following what drives you, and everything will fall into place.”

He led her to the remaining car in the driveway, and bid the rest of her companions a good night and safe travels, stepping aside carefully as they finally pulled away. Once the distant sound of crackling gravel finally dispelled into the night, the scientist knew that he was finally alone; he could breathe again. “Damn… you killed it out there, old timer. Good job.” He pumped his fist in the air as he spun around on his heel and strolled back towards the house. The catering and hosting team had finished packing away by then, leaving the first floor almost as clean as it had been hours before.

If this hadn’t felt like a home that morning, it certainly did in that moment. Dimmed lights, pieces of modern art and comfortable furniture, a blend of modern and futuristic that made him feel rejuvenated and hopeful. This was where his future would begin--a lonesome, unsuspecting home in the woods, built from the ground up by his dreams and drive alone. At least, that is the story that the world would read of eventually; the present had a few more kinks that needed ironing out.

Foregoing the idea of spending a few hours oozing on the couch to bask in the glory of his victory, Brian had one last stop to make before allowing himself to relax. He moved confidently through the halls, back down the stairs to the basement he had just shown off only an hour before, to the back room that he had taken great care not to mention to any of his guests. It was here that he was met by the familiar tingle of cold air that made him giddy with excitement; the tools and components in his Research lab would be the catalysts for cementing his name in history. He moved past the pieces of alien machinery without a second glance, stepping over some long-dead mech’s digit as he moved towards the server cabinet against the far wall.

Heavy cables that led from the back of the unit pulsed with a bright red hue, bringing medical-grade energon to the slumbering form beside it. “Let’s see how you’re doing tonight… yes, these readings seem very good, my friend.” A computer monitor inside the cabinet scrolled through a short list of readouts--life signs, energy levels, and processor scans--that told him things were still going as planned. He typed in a few commands to allow a bit more energon through the lines before closing the door again, and turned to look at the hidden component, amused. “You know, one of the investors mentioned a funny word tonight… ambition. You and I have that in common, don’t we? Haha. Well, she wasn’t wrong when she said it’s what drives us… but for you and me? I think that might be just the beginning of our work. Sleep well; there’s a lot to be done, come tomorrow.”

With a smile on his face and a spring in his step, the doctor swept from the room and flicked off the lights, feeling more confident in his work in that moment than ever before.


	7. Grace Descending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The actions of a grand Creator are rarely understood by those that follow him, let alone by the ones who receive their judgements. Can the messages within such acts be deciphered in one night, or should they merely be accepted at face-value? A Prime faces his greatest foe once again, and questions of judgement and morality begin to brew in the minds of those around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a number of references that have been pulled from the official Transformers: Cybertron comic, "Balancing Act," including the first portion of the chapter. TFWiki has a good article on it if you aren't familiar with the story, but seeing as this fic pulls from all parts of the Trilogy, it felt right to weave that part of the lore in now. If it seems strange, blame poor old Vector Prime.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for the delay on this chapter; it went through seven drafts before I got something that I was relatively happy with, and even then, it still feels like I could have done more. Please enjoy, because I can now finally get the plot rolling where I want it to go. (: It feels good to be past this mountain.

**===**

**Grand Archives -- Data Log, Personal Entry**

**Security Clearance -- AACM**

**Date -- In-Progress, Draft**

**Author -- AT**

**===**

**:: BEGIN LOG ::**

> _ For the first time in all my centuries of carrying this Quill, I find myself questioning Your decisions. _
> 
> _ Since my Brothers and I first came to be, the knowledge of all that Was, Is, and Will Be have coursed through my circuits; to transcribe these facts into being and have Your Will be recorded is the greatest honor that could ever have been bestowed upon me. It is difficult work, and the emotional toll that it can occasionally take is not one that many would be capable of bearing alone. For the gifts You have given me, I am forever thankful, and I will continue to write these words until my spark returns to Your own. _
> 
> _ And yet, here I now stand, staring down at the paths laid before Your Children, and I find myself wondering: why? I see the course laid out for those You deem to be the “true” path forward, and my spark hurts for the troubles they shall face, but they are nothing in comparison to those who are in the branching paths. I watch now as Your Thirteenth son reaches out into the depths of space to retrieve what You have purged of the Great Darkness--well, perhaps purged isn’t strong enough a word. For one blessed with immortality, nearly eleven thousand deaths in such a short span of time might be called something more vulgar. Your justice was swift, Your grace and mercy boundless, and, for the purpose You gave his soul, more than reasonable.  _
> 
> _ Will Thirteen and his counsel agree? What pain will their questioning of themselves and of You bring? The words I have written feel… muddied, incoherent; it almost seems as though the choices to come have not yet been set. What will that mean for our people, and for the universe as a whole?  _
> 
> _ Never once have I judged You or Your decisions, Primus, and that will not start now, even in this time of great uncertainty. My only question here is, why have You worked so carefully to aid in the course of this timeline when the collapse of all others hangs in the balance with the one reality meant to flourish and prosper? Is their own success tied so closely to the fabric of all realities that it needed what little remains of Your power?  _
> 
> _ Perhaps these thoughts mean it is time for the next chapter of my work to begin. _
> 
> _ Until my spark gives out, I will continue to serve. ‘Til All Are One. _
> 
> _ Alpha Trion, The Archivist _
> 
> **:: END LOG ::**

* * *

**::LOCATION - Debris Field, Grass Planetoid Orbit**

**::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 18:30 (MST)**

Although Optimus was not entirely uncertain just who or what he might find, the sight that greeted him out in the depths still struck him more deeply than even his darkest fears had anticipated.

The first word that came to mind as the fallen tyrant’s form came into view was  _ ruin _ ; the cracks that scarred his cockpit and its crushed glass were a reflection of the dead Cybertronian cities behind them, with once-pristine white paint wiped away in places to reveal patches of bare, warped metal beneath it. There was a crack along one wing that exposed the intricate nodes and wiring within, though its vibrant green tones still glistened beneath the glow of the Super Energon Sun. It was an ominous, gut-wrenching sight, and one that was made even more unnerving as the Prime drifted further forward to get a better vantage point. 

Megatron’s back had been turned towards him as he approached, but something still felt… off. There was no movement from the other’s frame, though its hints of color told the Prime that there was still some life within it; his broad wings sagged low in their sockets, as did the cannons upon his shoulders, making him appear as though he were recharging, at the very least. More than likely, that wasn’t the case. “Megatron…?”

He coasted slowly to the other’s left, studying the cracks and scrapes closely until he came around to settle in front of the flier, where the sight became much more grim. Megatron’s optics were offlined, but not shuttered; his expression seemed exhausted, drained of any and all desire to fight back at whatever pained him, and it was quite clear why as Optimus’ gaze shifted lower. What he could only describe as a deep fissure marred the surface of Megatron’s chassis, cutting straight through to his spark chamber. A soft, green light flickered from within, though it cast little reflection off the blackened metal around it.

It was almost as though he had been smote.

“Megatron… can… can you hear me? Primus…”

With great care Optimus reached forward to set a servo on a cracked shoulder, while the other covered the exposed core. Sympathy radiated through his field, though there was a flicker of confusion and disgust intermingling from his Combination partner--not now, he thought. “You’re alright, now. It’s over. Unicron… he can’t harm you; Primus made sure of it. I don’t know how, but I do know it. You… probably can’t even hear me right now, but you’ll… you have to trust me on this. You have to trust Him, too. Pits… we both do. Now let’s… let’s get you home.”

“Optimus Prime, you had BETTER have a  _ damned good _ explanation for being out--ohhh, you have  _ GOT  _ to be--NO.”

It took a great deal of strength to stifle the loud  _ HONK _ of surprise that echoed from his chassis, which resulted in Optimus lurching forward against his nemesis before turning to see Jetfire surging up behind him. Skywarp was at his heels as well, and in the distance, there could be seen a third flier approaching cautiously--Starscream? “Jetfire, this is--I’m--”

“You put that thing back where you found it, or so help me,” scolded the shuttle, whose glare could be felt even through his mask and visor. “What in the frag are you thinking?! And Wing Saber, really? You’re in on this too?”

“Ease up, mech; come on, it’s… I mean…” Skywarp had come to a halt beside Jetfire, glancing grimly at the frame in the Prime’s grasp before his own wings started to dip down. “Yeah, that’s… definitely a sight for sore optics. Ain’t… ain’t he supposed to be in the sun, like, dead? I could’ve sworn on my life that somebody said he flew into the sun. You… y’don’t just… get outta that. Right?”

Optimus took in a deep ventilation to clear his thoughts; no, he had to focus. Shaking his helm, his gaze refocused on the trio as he shifted Megatron closer to himself, trying to hide the carved-out chassis from sight. “Jetfire, stand down. I know this looks concerning, but I have things under control.”

“ _ Looks concerning _ ? Optimus, I’m saying this with all due respect, but not only are you off-the-clock right now, this also doesn’t just LOOK concerning. It IS concerning. Alarming, even. Just--” Jetfire drifted forward a few feet forward and gestured at the frame in his commander’s arms. “You’re not bringing that back. Absolutely not.”

“I must agree,” called the Seeker from the background, moving forward to float at Skywarp’s side--which drew an awkward look from the purple mech. “There is no telling what he might do if he’s brought online, if that can even be done. But yes, I witnessed his self-destruction myself; he flew in claiming that he couldn’t allow Unicron to take control again, or something along those lines. Do you require assistance returning him there?”

It was a comment that made the Prime’s plating bristle, but he kept a firm grip while responding in kind: “That’s not happening, because Unicron isn’t going to be possessing anyone; Primus has assured me of that.”

Even from such a distance, Optimus could feel the massive cloud of doubt radiating from the trio as his words sank in--and the snort of amusement from Starscream, who was silenced by a firm jab from Skywarp’s elbow. He, himself, felt just how ridiculous it must have sounded coming from his vocoder. Jetfire replied first, however, and his tone carried his annoyance with it: “That is… alright, whatever Red Alert gave you is clearly  _ not  _ something we want you having again. You and Rodimus said yourselves that Primus isn’t talking to anybody, so--”

“What’d he say, exactly?” Skywarp interrupted. He ignored the glares from Jetfire and his cousin while folding his arms in front of himself, studying the Prime’s hidden features ahead of him. “Primus. I ain’t some devout follower or anything, but I read something earlier that’s got me wondering… what did he say to you? Word-for-word.”

He hadn’t expected for Skywarp to be the one to try and see his reasoning, and so the question seemed to hang in the air for a moment before Optimus looked to him, puzzled. “It was… short, simple. At least, I believe it was--the message was at the end of a long list of… I’m not sure what, exactly. But it came while I was recharging, just… dreams. Points of light moving in ways that I somehow… remember both clearly, and vaguely. It is difficult to describe. When I awoke, there was something pulled up on my terminal--a message that lined up with my dreams. He told me, “It is done.” Now I don’t know what  _ it _ is, exactly, but I know  _ this  _ is somehow Primus’ doing. I have to follow that, no matter how ridiculous it might seem to you or me--if He says it must be done, then it must be done.”

Even more surprising than the initial curiosity was the upward flick of the purple mech’s wings before he threw his servos in the air. “Well, at least you can admit it’s out-there, Prime. And hey, it lines up with what I know, so… frag, guess that means we’re both crazy! I think you’re right.”

Jetfire’s focus flipped from Optimus to the Seeker at his side. “You’re joking. You read a bunch of old journals and suddenly you’re--you  _ cannot  _ be serious.” The comment earned a growl of agreement from Starscream as well. 

“I told you earlier, shuttle-boy, I hate it too! But you saw what I saw, and--hey, ol’ Doc Red might have just given this kid some fantastic hallucinogens, but if not, then it’s… I don’t know, memories? Something? But what other answers we got right now, huh?”

Optimus frowned, and it came through in his tone. “I can still hear you, Skywarp.”

“Enough to say bringing back the guy who put us in this position is gonna get us all killed! Or worse!” Jetfire’s anger had been redirected, but it had been years since Optimus had seen it grow to such heights; the last time had been just after he, himself, had returned from his year-long journey in space. “You’re going to tell me that you’re taking some old librarian’s diary over what we can see with our own optics?”

“Last I checked, I was the one who cut your optics out, so I know you’re not seein’  _ anything  _ clearly here.”

As the pair bickered back and forth, slipping into a Vosnian dialect that Optimus couldn’t quite understand, he became aware of a presence slipping into his vision from the side: Starscream. Instinctively, his grip tightened on Megatron’s frame as his golden gaze fell upon the ghostly form that quickly became solid mere feet away. “He’s not going to hurt you, Starscream.”

“Nightscream,” the flier corrected, apprehensive. “Starscream is dead, and so are my memories of his life--Megatron, however, is something that neither of us can forget. Do you  _ really _ believe him harmless?”

A pause. “Harmless? ...No. Even in this state, his presence alone is clearly enough to bring about trouble. But I do believe there is something… different. I felt it even before I found him here.”

Moving slowly, as though the husk of a mech leaning against the Prime would snap around and strike him at any moment, Nightscream slipped his arm back and brandished his sword. “Yes… there is something… off, here.” Before Optimus could protest, he tapped at Megatron’s pede with the sharpened edge of his blade, then pausing for a brief moment before beginning to prod at it. “Well, well… it really is gone.”

“What is gone?” Optimus tensed slightly. “If you’re talking about Unicron, then yes--the Spark of Combination purged him of it.”

“That, and the abilities he stole  _ from _ that mass of chaos, apparently,” Nightscream stated. “I can always feel it on him--it is the essence he used to reforge me, along with Snowcat, Demolishor, and Mirage, among others. But now it’s… not there. As though the tether holding me to him has been broken entirely. Hmm; no wonder I’ve been feeling so…  _ free  _ as of late.”

It was likely that his commentary was more introspective than anything, but Optimus was not about to discount it. “I saw firsthand what it did to Inferno; there is no excuse for what he did to any of you, let alone to our race, our home, and… countless other civilizations.”

“No, there isn’t. Yet something tells me you are still willing to risk what is left to try and save what shred of worth he might have hidden away in the depths of his miserable soul.”

For a moment Optimus merely stared at him in silence, bewildered; even from his fellow Autobot commanders, such bold, honest commentary was rare to hear, but from Nightscream? “Did you--are you  _ really-- _ ”

“Nights?! Do NOT try to--get back over here!” Jetfire had broken off from his argument with a smug-looking Skywarp to turn back to his previous battle, only to flare his armor defensively as the scene unfolded before him. “Optimus, that’s enough of this. Let him go, and we’re getting you back home to rest.”

And yet, neither Nightscream nor Optimus made a single move to break their arrangement. The Seeker looked to him with bright green optics, curious, and replied, “Do forgive me for my… brutal analysis and opinions, Optimus Prime. While I mean you no disrespect, having my mind and soul returned to me has given me much to ponder. I merely…  _ worry  _ for our joint future.”

“Apology accepted,” the Prime returned, “but that is why I believe we need to listen to the signs we’ve been given. I don’t know what this means, but I believe Primus when he says that something has been done. While I can hardly call myself fully devout, I can see what is in front of us: there are barely four-hundred Cybertronians left, and if our Creator says that this one that destroyed all of the others is needed to keep the rest alive, then… then…”

“This is ridiculous; like, legitimately OUTRAGEOUS. This is--why are we HAVING this argument?! LISTEN to me, Optimus!” There was a sense of desperation laced within Jetfire’s frustrated cry that caught the attention of both the Prime and Nightscream, who stared back at him in surprise. His wings flicked back slightly as he finally moved forward to take Optimus’ arm, refusing to look away from his commander even once as he went. “Listen to me. We can… we’ll talk about this once you’re rested. Leave him here, and if everyone agrees, we can come get somebody to salvage--”

“I am  _ not  _ leaving him here.”

Jetfire’s shoulders dropped. There was no more anger to be seen or heard in his movements and words, but his grip remained tight on his former Combination partner. “Optimus. Come on.”

“He’s coming with us, Jetfire. I know you’re worried--I am as well. I trust your judgement more than I trust my own most days, but right now, you need to trust  _ me _ .”

“Uh… not to… break up what’s a meaningful moment here, but… what is that light between you and Megatron?”

Optimus broke away from Jetfire’s soft gaze to see Skywarp staring at him in alarm, wings raised as though he was ready to strike at any moment. “What’s…” The tyrant’s frame had shifted in the argument, allowing the soft, flickering glow of Megatron’s spark to spill across his chassis. “It’s--it’s his spark. The chamber is exposed, it’s--”

“A pale green interspersed with streaks of white.” Skywarp spoke the words as though he was reading straight from a scientific log, and he moved forward to get a better look before Optimus could counter. “Let me see. I’m not gonna stab him, don’t worry. Probably wouldn’t make a difference, anyway”

Casting a wary look at the purple flier, Optimus shifted slightly to better hold Megatron’s exhausted form against him at an angle. From here, they could all see the deep wound that surrounded the weakened light, which earned a soft, startled sort of sound from Jetfire, and a grimace from both Seekers. “What are you looking for?”

“Juuuust wanna check and see if it’s what I think it is,” said Skywarp, ignoring the marred surface of his former leader’s chest plates as he squinted to look within. “Green with white, yeah, that’s…” His optics flashed brightly for an instant as his words drifted away, and the curious expression he bore immediately faded to one of concern. “Prime, what color’s your spark?”

It was Jetfire who answered for him, grip tightening on Optimus’ arm as he looked to Skywarp with worry. “Blue and yellow. You’re… you’re not gonna…”

“What kind of blue?”

“Skywarp…”

Optimus looked between the two in silence before a low growl cut from his engines. “Is there something I need to know? What is going on here--what does my spark have to do with this? Megatron’s is the one out in the open, here.”

“Yeah, uh. There’s some stuff you’ll probably wanna read later.”   
  
“ _ Skywarp _ .” 

The Seeker winced. “Pits, mech, fine--Jetfire, he’s right. You and your Autobot pals argue later, but Prime’s right, here. We’ve gotta get this big bad bird home, and yes, I HATE saying that. You get the truck back to berth, I’ll get Megatron to Doc Red.”

Optimus leaned forward to speak, but, once more, his Second cut him off: “No… no, Red’s only gonna let Megatron in if Optimus or I make the call for him to do it. You and Nights go on ahead and make sure there’s a private suite set up. We’ve got this.”

“Alright… good luck. And uh. Sorry for the comment about your cargo space, by the way.”

“Don’t worry--I’ll get you back for that at some point. Now get out of here.”

After offering a snort of amusement, the purple Seeker backflipped into his alt mode and took off for Cybertron, with Nightscream following a short distance behind him. It was at that point that Jetfire finally released his firm grip on the Prime’s arm, choosing instead to drift around to Megatron’s other side and pull the limp arm over his shoulder. “Come on, you… ugh, yeesh, you’re way heavier than you look...”

“Jetfire, what is going on? I want answers-- _ why _ are you doing this?” Optimus did not fight the adjustment, but it was clear that he had no intentions to move forward any time soon.

The rush of air that left the shuttle’s vents just then was one that carried with it his exhaustion and unease; despite his anger mere moments before, he had no will to continue arguing. “Because you’re right, Opti. I need to trust you. It’s… it’s what I should always do first, y’know? I’m your Second, and I need to act like it. I know you’re not just making some rash decision out of nowhere--I’m sorry for jumping at you like you weren’t thinking.” He looked over to the Prime and cocked his helm to the side. “I promise, we’ll talk once he’s taken care of. I’ll tell you everything we know right now, and I’ll support you no matter what you decide to do. Alright?”

How long had it been since he last heard that nickname? It wasn’t something ever spoken in the company of others, let alone someone like Megatron, but it spoke more of Jetfire’s genuine care than any other words ever could. Optimus released an ex-vent of his own before pulling the other arm over his shoulder, saying, “Alright. And I’m sorry for my obstinance. I should always hear you out before  _ also  _ going on the defensive.”

“Damn right you should,” Jetfire teased. “And as for YOU--” He pointed at the extra bulk on the Prime’s frame that was Wing Saber. “--we need to have a talk later about helping your boss out with his wild, “I’m sick and should be in bed but I don’t wanna be” schemes. Red Alert bolts him down to the mediberth for a reason.”

* * *

**::LOCATION - Cybertron; Central City Command - Command Residence Level**

**::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 23:30 (MST)**

Much to the surprise of everyone involved, the ensuing argument with Red Alert upon their arrival with Megatron was short. Although his initial response had been one of anger and apprehension, the medic ultimately relented; it was, in his own words, his sworn duty to care for any and all who needed aid--even if, he said, “they were guilty of nearly causing their own species to go extinct out of sheer stupidity and arrogance.” He just wouldn’t be happy about it.

The most difficult part of their venture was, in fact, the process of actually  _ leaving  _ the medbay. After the doors to the emergency room slid closed, Optimus remained rooted in place in front of them, denied entry to observing the process of Megatron’s procedures. Even after Wing Saber had disengaged their combination, it took both his own strength and Jetfire’s coaxing to finally remove the Prime from his statuesque position. 

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine. Red’s got the skills to put him back together, and if he pops up to try and snuff out our docbot in the process, he’s gonna be back in the grave before he even yells “surprise,’” assured Jetfire. “Let’s go get you tucked in and we can talk.”

Optimus was settled in his berth no more than ten minutes later, with his Second sitting on the edge beside him, while Skywarp chose to kick his pedes up in the seat next to his terminal. He had given each one of them a datapad before relaxing, including Nightscream, who chose the couch near the end of the berth, but still close enough to be engaged in the conversation. His gaze was focused on something near the door.

“Why is the flooring so… scorched over there?” He finally asked, nodding to the bare space before the entryway. An old Autobrand that had once been inlaid there was, indeed, blackened and charred. “It looks to be quite an old battle scar.”

“Oh, THAT is why you don’t wanna torque off Rodimus,” said the shuttle, noting that his commander wasn’t exactly listening. “He and Optimus had an argument the night before he left the war, and nobody ever got around to cleaning that up. Just didn’t seem important in the grand scheme of things, y’know?”

Nightscream grimaced before nodding and turning back towards the group. “Mmm… duly noted. Those flame decals aren’t just for show.”

“Man, you’re just out here asking why they don’t clean up the place more often? Kinda rude, mech,” Skywarp teased. “Now then, why don’t we get to explainin’ stuff before Optimus Prime here tries to get some beauty sleep, eh?”

He spun around in the seat and brought up the mass of decrypted files on the main terminal screen. “I haven’t had much of a chance to go through everything, but I’ve seen enough so far to make some solid conclusions. Now, uh, it’s some… heavy stuff here, so just tell me when you need me to pause, alright?”

The Prime vented softly, and gave a short nod. “Alright. Let’s get into… whatever this is. From just the first slide on this, I’m… not sure what I’m looking at. Project NEXT?”

“Yeah, we’re starting with the stuff about you, then going into Megatron,” the Seeker confirmed. He watched Jetfire slip a bit closer to the Prime over his shoulder before continuing: “The name doesn’t mean much--it was meant as a sort of smokescreen in case the public caught on, but it  _ apparently _ stands for New Extraction Terminal. Turns out probably should’ve been something like, “Project: Grooming the Next Prime.” That’s… obviously not  _ really  _ the name, but, y’know. Anyway. When your spark was retrieved from the Well, this was the plan for your purpose according to the Autobot council. Your training, how you’d be presented to the public, and how to make use of whatever your abilities were to help regain control of Cybertron’s political structure.”

Despite not being asked to, Skywarp paused so that the information could begin to settle in. The golden gaze of Optimus Prime was fixed on the datapad in his grasp, flicking back and forth as he moved through the documents. One in particular seemed to hold his attention for a few moments longer than the rest, but he ultimately nodded in response to the overwhelming silence in the room. “It… unfortunately makes a good deal of sense, when I think about it. There were few freedoms that I was granted when I began in the Academy, and no one around me seemed to be living that way. About the Council, though, I’m… alright, go on. Where did these files come from, again?”

Jetfire spoke up at that point and answered, “Believe it or not, it was stuff that came from your terminal. I was setting it up for whenever you came online to try and work, and it had all just… somehow downloaded from Teletraan-II. Somebody obviously wanted you to have all this, and I didn’t know what it was, so I had Skywarp look into it. It all came along with that message you mentioned. If it really is Primus, then he… wants you to know this stuff. If not, there’s somebody else who does.”

“I couldn’t… possibly imagine who else it could be,” Optimus said. “Okay… so. The Autobot Council obtained my spark and trained me with the intention of me becoming Prime, but that somehow isn’t the most important part of all of this. Am I following you so far?”

“Yeah, and you’re taking that a whole lot better than I thought you would,” replied Skywarp. “I know I’d be torqued if it was me. Where it gets even more heavy is that they were following your progress through the Well--before you even emerged, they saw you, and they wanted you. Unfortunately, that means the Decepticon Council was also privy to that knowledge, and they wanted you even more.”

At that point he had brought up the files documenting the progress of the “powerful spark mass” deep within the planet, setting Log 12 up beside an image that had been described within the text. Both Autobots looked up then to study it, but only one of them seemed transfixed on the two points of light that flared as one within the darkness. Optimus leaned forward, his vocals barely above a whisper as he muttered, “Megatron…? Is… that’s… I don’t understand.”

Jetfire nodded. “I know Primus said that the two of you were somehow tied together in all of this--we have the recording of it and everything. But I didn’t think it was… well, this literal.”

“The Autobots got you, and the Decepticons got Megatron, so whatever the big guy was planning obviously got tossed to the wind. There’s some logs in here from a guy who apparently monitored Primus back in the day, an Archivist of some kind, and he… well,  _ they  _ kept saying the two of you needing to stay together, and mentioned Rodimus by title to say he thought there was a plan to do that. From all this, though, it’s pretty clear that plan went just as badly, if there even WAS a plan. So… yeah. That’s why it didn’t sound so crazy to me that you wanted to bring Megatron back here, and why, even though I hate it, I think it was the best move. Your spark said to do it, so did Primus.” Skywarp shrugged half-heartedly before pulling up one of the diary logs from the mysterious AT and leaning back in his seat. “Questions, comments?”

Silence filled the air for such a long period of time that even Nightscream appeared uncomfortable by it. He set his own datapad down and glanced at the pair of Autobots on the berth, noting with a frown just how close Jetfire appeared to have gotten to the Prime. “Is there something wrong?”

“Rodimus kept this to himself for ten million years.” It was another near-silent statement from Optimus, whose optics were still fixed upon the image of his spark drifting through the Well with Megatron’s orbiting so tightly beside it. “We could have ended this. Ten million years, and… so many millions of lives… billions… he just…”

Sensing the building stress within his friend, Jetfire leaned in and set a servo on the Prime’s arm. “Hey, it’s… I know. We’re gonna figure this out, but you’ve gotta--”

Optimus snapped his helm to the side and glared back at his Second. “I have to WHAT, Jetfire? You all just casually tell me that the mech who has been ripping the universe apart for sport over the last ten million years is supposed to be--what does that say, my  _ Protector _ ? And that my senior Prime was trying to cover up his failure to keep to his duties by allowing me to aid in our species’ demise, and the near-destruction of the cosmos? And I should just relax and accept all of this at once?!”

Jetfire took in a deep vent of air. “No.”

“Then  _ what _ ?”

“...You’ve gotta let us feel it with you. I want you to talk through it with me. Be mad, be whatever you need to be and whatever you feel. I’m here and it’s without judgement.”

“Well I FEEL angry--infuriated, even. I’m--confused… just… why is this--agh!” Optimus shook his helm, trying to chase away the fog of emotions that clouded his processors before looking back at the datapad beside him. “We were meant to help, we were meant to do it together… instead we just… tools. Nothing but pawns in a game of politics that cost the lives of more beings that we will ever know. I’d go and throttle him right now if I could. Rodimus, you damned… what do we even do now?”

Skywarp’s wings had folded down low behind him, and his expression softened to one of uncertainty; it was a candid moment that he was both unused to, and uncertain how to handle. Clearly, it was not something he was ever supposed to witness. “Well… I mean, we’re doin’ what we can to get back into the systems, and to Primus. Once we’ve got that opened up, he’s gonna have a lot more answers and ideas than we do. My best guess is… maybe he did something to intervene here, other than just telling us this with these files.”

“Something like what?” asked Nightscream. “Spitting Megatron out of the super energon sun with a new, clean spark and a bow on top to start all over?”

“That’s  _ incredibly _ stupid, but frag if I know. You think I’m gonna question the abilities of a guy who can spit his blood out into space and live to talk about it? Still, uh. Sorry for dropping that bombshell on you so late at night, Prime,” the purple mech said. “I probably should’ve led in with something a bit lighter, like the notes from the guy who thought it was cute how you stopped to say hi to every turbohound on the street during patrols.”

Optimus shook his helm. “No, I… I asked for it. There are some things you can’t just explain lightly. I’m upset, but I won’t… I’m not going to do anything drastic. Especially not right now. I think I’m just going to read through what’s here and try to make sense of it for now, but thank you. Thank you for pulling this together and… actually telling me. Most importantly, my sincere apologies for lashing out at you all so much tonight.”

“Hey, it’s no paint off my dorsals,” Skywarp said. “Feels good to actually have the slag I do go towards something meaningful for once. I think I should uh, probably bow out for the time being, though. When I get anything else out of all this, and I’ll send it to you and Jets first. Nights, let’s bounce.”

Nightscream had finally looked away from Jetfire to stare blankly at his cousin then, baffled. “Why are we--”

“Sappy Autobot stuff, obviously. C’mon. You and me need to get a drink.” He hopped off the Prime’s seat and strolled over to the couch, where he grabbed Nightscream by the arm and tugged him out the door. “Have a good night, you two.”

As the entryway slid shut behind the pair of squabbling Seekers, Jetfire finally found it in himself to pull up closer to his former Combination partner and wrap an arm around his side. “I’m sorry for calling you out like that in front of them.”

“No, it’s--don’t be. I probably would have shut down completely if you hadn’t said anything,” the Prime admitted. “There’s too much to consider right now to just… dwell on that one point.”

“Don’t worry, I planned on talking to him and Magnus about this in the morning. For now, let’s you and me think about something else, like… what do you think, if it was Primus who left that message, he meant by “it is done.” I can’t figure it out,” Jetfire admitted, “but you seemed to have… SOME idea. Right?”

Optimus vented a deep sigh. “As ridiculous as it sounds, I believe it’s along the lines of what Nightscream posed: Primus did something to Megatron in order for things to move forward. Giving us all of these documents was likely to set the stage, so I would understand the why of things, but… after all that has happened, I just… what would possibly make us overlook all of the… well…”

“All of the  _ Megatron  _ about him?” Jetfire couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, the uh… crimes against civilization, the tyranny, the slaughter of millions, iiiit’s a lot to take in.”

Before he could respond, something seemed to change in the Prime’s demeanor. He froze, seemingly drained of his unease, before suddenly drawing his servo up over his spark chamber with a sharp gasp. “Fraggit--ugh!” His optics flashed brightly before shuttering closed, and he curled forward as though to shield himself from further pain. “Call…”

“Calling, calling now,” Jetfire assured, pulling Optimus’ frame closer to himself. “I’ve gotcha, just hang tight.”

There he briefly fell into silence, switching on his internal commline while trying to soothe the other.  _ ‘Red, we’ve got spark trouble again. Is anyone free to look at him?’ _

Much to his surprise, Jetfire received a verbal reply, and almost immediately after he sent the message off. It echoed through his internal systems, and seemed to be dialed into both his own commline, and the Prime’s as well. Red Alert’s voice sounded back with full clarity through the joint line, a bit annoyed, but more exhausted than anything:  _ ‘Drat, he felt that? Well, I suppose that confirms that…’ _

“Uhh… what?” Jetfire paused and looked down at Optimus, whose field gave off an air of confusion as well. “Felt what? What in the Pits are you doing down there, doc?”

_ ‘I was giving Megatron’s spark an in-depth scan before sealing him up, and the results were somewhat alarming. First of all, he has an Outlier’s spark--there was nothing in the Decepticon medical logs about that, but it is… INCREDIBLY powerful. Not only that, but according to his systems--OUCH. Excuse you, I am SPEAKING to another PATIENT.’ _

The pair looked to each other in bewilderment for a moment, hearing a dull  _ THWACK _ across the line before Red Alert sighed.

_ ‘Apologies; the current surged for a moment and his wing smacked into my good arm. As I was saying, his systems readouts are alarming, to say the very least. I expected a good deal of excess energy from being surrounded by so much Super Energon, but what I found was exactly the opposite--he has almost nothing in terms of additional powers. None of that bizarre energy that altered Roadblock, anything. He’s just… normal. On top of that… Optimus, I’m going to need you down here as soon as possible. If you felt what just happened, that means two things are very certain.’ _

What was once an air of confusion seemed to fizzle into a sense of dread within Optimus’ field, and he found himself leaning further into Jetfire’s grasp before he replied: “Let me guess… you want me to retake the Matrix tonight, don’t you?”

Red Alert hummed curiously, but dismissed the idea by saying,  _ ‘No, actually--quite the opposite. If you felt that, first of all, it means that there was likely an additional effect of the Spark of Combination’s use in draining Unicron from Galvatron’s being--I am confident in saying that it may have resulted in a partial spark-bond between the two of you.’ _

It was as though the Unicron-infested form of his foe had punched him across the planet’s surface once again; Optimus lurched slightly, alarming Jetfire with a short groan from his engines before shaking his helm. “That… we…”

“I’ve gotcha, big guy… Red, are you sure?” Jetfire asked, hoping to soothe his friend. 

_ ‘Not entirely, which is why I need to be allowed to actually give a full scan of his spark and compare the results with Megatron’s. If this does happen to be the case, then I believe I know just WHAT his Outlier ability is, and it has nothing to do with being obnoxious: Immortality.’ _

Jetfire frowned behind his mask. “Come again?”

_ ‘Immortality. He, quite literally, cannot die.’ _

“Aaaaand what’s giving you the idea that this is what he can do? Or, uh. NOT do.”

Red Alert aired a soft sigh, though it was more one of exhaustion than anything.  _ ‘Because, according to his frame, his spark has experienced ten thousand, six-hundred and eighty-four resets since the date of his assumed demise. So. On that bombshell, would you please bring Optimus to me at your earliest convenience? Thank you.’  _

* * *

**::LOCATION - Cybertron; Central City Command - Medbay Emergency Sector**

**::TIME - ERROR; Approximation - 01:30 (MST)**

“Red, just so you know, everything you said over the commline made me age about twenty million years.”

As the medic swept into the room with some strange scanner in tow, Jetfire had finally finished helping ease his friend onto nearby mediberth before firing off the sarcastic remark. While Optimus had recovered from the ache in his spark, he still seemed rather uneasy. “And is it ethical to step out of surgery like that?”

“You can talk to me about ethics once you learn to at least say please and thank you, Jetfire,” Red Alert scolded, though his tone was more polite than he likely intended it to be. “Regardless, there is an energon patch setting on his wing right now, and I don’t want to risk frying his sensory systems by working on anything else at the same time. How are you feeling, Optimus?”

“Drained, both physically and mentally,” he admitted. In this place, he knew he could be candid--as his two closest friends, and likely the only mecha he could call such a thing, they expected it of him. “But I’m… ready to get this over with. If I may, what would be different about this test than the ones you’ve been running over the last decacycle?”

By then the medic had already slipped under his arm and plugged the small scanner into his front-facing medical port, and was getting ready to settle in front of him. “I have looked for everything  _ but _ signs of a spark bond, only because I didn’t think you would have one with anyone I hadn’t approved of just yet. Along with that, sparks are tricky things--changes in color can be caused by any number of things, so seeing those bits of green would only tell me to look at your stress levels, energon exposure, and so on. But, with the other half of this potential bond now bolted down to a table in the other room, I can actually tell if it’s a  _ frequency _ that’s been added to you.”

Jetfire snorted. “You sound way too excited about this.”

“Only because you’re not. Now, Optimus, would you kindly show me your spark? This will only take a moment.”

There came a soft  _ hiss _ of hydraulics as Optimus sat up and straightened himself, allowing his chest plates to slide smoothly away and back. Within the empty cavity usually occupied by the Matrix of Leadership rested a glistening silver sphere, decorated with a gold, glowing filigree of ancient Cybertronian text. It was, however, a sight that Red Alert had seen many times before; ignoring the tattooing that had even Jetfire’s wings giving a soft, flustered little flutter behind him, Red Alert leaned in so that his visor could give the blue corona within a deep scan.

“Alright… yes, it definitely registered me prodding Megatron’s spark--”

Optimus stared at him. “You did what?”

Despite the comment, Red Alert continued: “--so there’s that… Optimus, when Primus was… well, puppeting you around, do you recall any sensations with your spark that were out of the ordinary?”

“I’m… honestly, I don’t. I remember…  _ calling  _ to Galvatron as loudly as I could, trying to get him to break free from Unicron’s hold, and… before everything went dark, I could have sworn he… took my servo, so to speak.”

“Then that is… well, I know nothing about how Primus does his work, but if he pulled the Spark of Combination from your chamber to remove Unicron, then I can assume it gave your spark the opportunity to talk to Galvatron’s. That “grabbing of your servo,” so to speak, was at least the very beginning of a spark bond. It might also explain how you found him out there without any sort of markers to seek him out,” the medic offered, standing to his full height one more. He then leaned in and unplugged the scanner from his friend’s side before stepping back towards a terminal in the corner. “Over the last few orn, all of those spark fluctuations you have been experiencing were actually Megatron’s spark being reset. If you recall from all of those Council hearings over the centuries, spark resets are… quite the taboo procedure, to say the very least.”

At that point, Jetfire moved towards the mediberth and set a servo on his friend’s shoulder, allowing a sense of comfort and care to flow into his EM field for support. “Well, he might not, but yeah--they’re… pretty terrible, right? Like, you take someone’s soul and rip every feeling they’ve ever had out of it, their conscience and everything, and pretty much leave them to start over.”

“That’s the short version of things, but yes--controversial, morbid, and potentially fatal,” explained Red Alert. “One reset leaves you weakened for the rest of your existence, whatever that is, but anything more than that is absolutely fatal. Some don’t even survive the first attempts, which is why it’s seen as worse than sentencing someone to be extinguished.”

“So, a guy having nearly eleven thousand of them is… definitely not normal,” Jetfire grimly agreed. “And… that… would… would  _ Primus  _ have done that?”

“Who else could have? Your Creator acting as judge, jury, and executioner… I could see it, I suppose. But for Megatron, of all people? I couldn’t fathom why.” Offering a shrug, the medic turned away just in time to miss seeing the glance of astonishment and unease shared between Prime and Second in Command. “Now then, I’m going to stop messing with his essence tonight and get the final results of this for you in the morning, Optimus. You get back to berth, and we can talk about our options when things are a bit more clear for everyone. Alright?”

Optimus took a moment to remove himself from the dread growing in his spark before giving a solemn nod to his friend. “Yes… that’s… alright. Thank you, Red Alert. I’ll… do that now. I have a lot to think about, now.”

“Rest well, Optronix. You’re going to be alright, and, no matter what, Megatron will be taken care of. You can count on that.” The medic flashed a smile before stepping out of the room, where he was stopped almost immediately. “GAH--I beg your--what are you doing?!”

It was Jetfire who moved first, jumping from his space at the Prime’s side to bolt towards the door and see what had happened. Optimus followed soon after, ensuring his chest plates had closed before he pushed his way through as well. Standing just a few paces ahead, backing away from the trio with servos raised, was a mech that seemed quite out of place. They were quite tall, close to Ultra Magnus’ height albeit with less bulk, clad in maroon-and-white armor. Most curious about their appearance to Optimus, at least, was the face-guard just beneath their nasal ridge.

Why did they feel so familiar?

Jetfire’s plating flared defensively, and he pushed himself forward to stand in front Optimus and Red Alert, between them and the stranger. “You have three seconds to identify yourself before you’re on the ground, buddy.” Before either of his friends could act, he had pulled his blaster from a compartment on his back and leveled it at the other mech. “Two.”

“Now--now just a moment, I am… not accustomed to this,” the stranger stammered. Something in his tone made Optimus’ spark pulse curiously; he recognized their accent, somehow. “I am Alpha Trion, Archivist to Primus and Keeper of Teletraan-II. Please, good sir, lower your weapon--I am unarmed.”

“You… Alpha  _ Trion _ ?” parroted Red Alert. “That is…”

“Impossible, right? Last I checked, the history books say he’s either dead and gone or missing in action,” Jetfire stated; he kept his blaster pointed at the other mech, undaunted. “Try again. I’m feeling nice today.”

Alpha Trion took another step backward, keeping his servos in full view, but allowing the trio more space. “I assure you, it is nothing but the truth; I have called our Creator’s server room my home since Vector Prime himself was the Matrix Bearer.”

“Then how did you get in here, huh? And what do you want? Doc--go on, get back to the big bird. I’ll cover you,” said Jetfire, motioning to Red Alert to move. “And take Optimus with you. He’ll behave.”

“I am here because Primus is in too fragile a state to act--it is I who provided those sets of documents to Thirteen, and it is imperative that I speak with him at once.” He paused and looked towards Optimus, wherein relief swept over his features. “You have certainly changed a great deal, my Brother; it is good to see you once again.”


End file.
